Misdiagnosis
by IceCreamChanges
Summary: 6 months Post-Fall. When something happens to John, Sherlock returns to his side. Both men, now forced to face unaddressed emotions, abandon some old identities and gain some new ones. Thorough discussion of sexuality, so if that doesn't interest you, consider yourself warned. (Rated M for self-harm, suicide attempt, and later explicit sex)
1. Chapter 1

**My rating is for self-harm, suicide attempt, and explicit sexual content (later). I'm sorry to anyone who finds this first bit triggering. I suffer from these things myself and I understand how triggering it can be to hear about it or read about it or see it in or on someone else. If you can believe it, writing this has helped me some. **

"High functioning sociopath", that was Sherlock's label for himself and he had lived his life accordingly. His label was his everything. After all, who are you if not the labels you give yourself?

He began to develop this label even before he knew the term or he read the DSM. He developed this sense of self when feelings were too much, when it was just too much to have them at all. He conceived of a break with two options: he could be emotive and crack under the scrutiny and hatred that surrounded him or he could not feel it, any of it. Not care about anything at all. He went through his teenage years, forcing himself to drown out the talk of others, reciting to himself that they were idiotic and could never understand and it was true; they could never understand what it was like in Sherlock's head. And so, he told himself that nothing they said mattered, to feel nothing when he was accosted by their words and maybe accost them back a little and a little developed into a lot as he became more and more guiltless.

Then, one day, much later and when he'd already embraced this unfeeling self, he read about Antisocial Personality Disorder and what it means to be a sociopath and thought it so wonderful. He had a lot of the criteria met already and developed the rest until he himself couldn't tell where what he'd learned separated from what he was.

He would not give this up. It was his saving grace. He could be the callous genius, not caring if the whispers behind his back thought him sick, twisted, and even capable of murder. He could feel no guilt about outing an affair or finding a murder to be a wonderful and exciting puzzle. He could manipulate Molly with a comment about her shoes or some nonsense and not care that he was dragging her along, only that he got what he wanted. It was liberating.

And so, every day he woke up and he went through the motions. Until one day was somehow different from the others: the day he met John. This was of course something that he did not allow himself to think at the time or for long afterwards. But the feelings started to creep back in that day.

He resisted it with every cell in his body.

People would comment on how they were a couple and John would even proposition him and he would push it aside. He was a sociopath. He didn't feel these things. Why couldn't they just understand? They were idiots; he knew it. They did not see things they way he saw them. They believed in love conquering all and all that blather and they saw what they wanted. They saw that John tolerated him and they declared that they must be a couple. It was cliché.

And yet, the slippery fingers of _sentiment_ started eroding at whatever small crack they could find in his constructed mask. He pushed back as hard as he could. He maintained his cool exterior, when turning John down at Angelo's. He kept his biting tongue, when he told John he was an idiot at any chance he got. He preserved his manipulative ways, getting John to do absurd things to prove a point.

But nothing could keep the fingers from doing their work. He _hesitated_ at Angelo's and felt _appreciative_ of John's reassurance. He _complimented_ John, telling him that he was a brilliant conductor of light. He did these things without meaning to and it rattled him.

The fingers got their first big break, when he saw the bomb strapped to John, and the feelings really started to rush back then. After that night, he tried to push back even harder. He gave Irene Adler his attention for a while. He had to admit that he found her intriguing; her intellect, her ambition, it was all so refreshing. Surrounded by incompetent criminals who he took down within the day, she arose as a competitor and a companion. She was a challenge and so very much not like John. She was like Sherlock: cold and cunning and taking no mercy. He liked it. With Irene there was no expectation of humanity, just an interest in his intellect, which she then in turn matched with her own almost perfectly, almost. He enjoyed her presence in a sea of vacant expressions and in this enjoyment was the added benefit that she not only acted as a distraction from the incessant reminder that he ought to be different and ought to try to be different, but also as the wedge between he and John, a potential stopper to kill the damnable flow. She was the convenient and novel combination of a person he could respect and person who could unknowingly serve a great purpose. John would count the text messages and watch him mourn the loss of a genuinely intelligent individual, a true colleague, and this mourning was at least reassuring in its drop of potential that this rift would kill the spill for sure and then he would repair the damage to his identity. What kept some of his disappointment at her loss at bay was the thought that at least all might be well at last for his construction; even if he had lost a companion, he would not lose what was left of his sanity.

But John was annoyingly good at dealing with Sherlock's blows. He met his insults remarkably well, taking a walk and returning good as new. John adjusted to Sherlock's actions, indulging his bored phases and even eventually becoming his personal consulting PR man. He told him how to behave in public, when he'd crossed the line (and to Sherlock's horror he took the advice).

John took it all in stride.

Nothing Sherlock did kept John out and stopped the feelings, but nothing could stop Sherlock from trying to preserve his identity. He hypothesized that if he didn't have his identity, then he would crumble. He had pretty good logic to back it up, he thought. This hypothesis did not need to be tested. It was basically a fact.

Maybe one thing could stop his reconstructive efforts: Moriarty threatening the lives of his friends, John's life. In the fraction of time that he had to decide, he let down one of his dams just a little and he felt _something_. He couldn't let John die. Absolutely not.

So, he put his plan in action. He jumped.

Since being "dead", Sherlock hid and assisted his brother in deducing the locations of the three gunmen and taking them out one-by-one, killing their orders with them. All the while, he thought about that dam he'd let down. He's never been able to properly put it back up again. It was leaking endlessly.

He stared at John at his grave and he _hurt_. He sat alone in his new secret flat and he felt _lonely_. He was terrified by these feelings and what they meant. The world was beginning to crash in on him and all he wanted to do was be with John again. During those times, he reminded himself that he had work to do, a puzzle! There was one assassin left, John's, the most elusive.

He'd just deduced his location and he'd just sent Mycroft the final text, when he got the phone call.


	2. Chapter 2

**Again: My rating is for self-harm, suicide attempt, and explicit sexual content (later). I'm sorry to anyone who finds this first bit triggering. I suffer from these things myself and I understand how triggering it can be to hear about it or read about it or see it in or on someone else. If you can believe it, writing this has helped me some.**

It started at Sherlock's funeral.

There was so respite from the pain, the misery. This was the day when Sherlock's death was even more inescapable. This was the day when he was supposed to say goodbye to Sherlock for good.

Getting dressed was agonizing. He donned his only suit, the black suit he wore to Moriarty's trial, and shivered. He put on his tie and used the tie clip Sherlock was given for rescuing the kidnapped banker and the diamond cufflinks Sherlock got for solving the Reichenbach case, the case that made his name. It hurt him to fish these things from wherever Sherlock tossed them, but he needed Sherlock close. He needed these trinkets to remind him of the good days. The days when they stood side-by-side against the world, racing against time, and still laughed.

The onslaught only got worse when he left the flat. The press knew about the date of Sherlock's funeral and swarmed him the minute he opened the front door. He knew this would happen, but no mental steeling could keep him completely safe while reporters yelled questions at him. Each one hurt more than the last, like a punch to the stomach every time they opened their mouths.

He pushed passed and got into the cab where Mrs. Hudson waited. She patted his leg and talked at him for the rest of the ride, while he just nodded and stared out the window. When they got to their destination, Sherlock's final resting place, John could not help but to take in a shuttering breath. His pulse raced and he broke out in a sweat. It felt like his lungs where collapsing in and his heart was ready to explode. He did everything he could to hide it, but he noticed Mrs. Hudson's side-ways glance. She opened and closed her mouth, not sure what to say.

There was nothing to say.

He lurched out of the cab, using his cane to support himself as his shaking legs failed him.

And then he saw it. The group of people gathered and waited for Sherlock's funeral. It was all wrong. Donovan, Anderson, _Mycroft_, they were all there and none of them deserved to be. They'd put Sherlock there, in his grave, pushed him to his breaking point.

The best he could with his cane as his aid, he stormed his way towards them.

"Get the fuck out!" he bellowed, pointing crazily at the three with a sweeping gesture. "All of you! Just fucking leave! There's no freak show today!"

They turned around, shocked, and John laughed at the audacity of it, of all of it. They thought that they could all just show up here and no one would say anything? They thought that no one would mention that Donovan called Sherlock a freak every chance she got? They thought that no one would say anything about how Anderson hated Sherlock from the day they met and made it very well clear? Mycroft thought that John would just sit by and let him morn a brother who he was key in bringing down?

They had another thing coming.

"When did any of you start to give a fuck about Sherlock? I certainly never got to see it! Was it when you found out he was dead? Did you suddenly realize then that you were all selfish gits! Well, it's too late!" He struggled, his voice cracking and wheezing and his breathes coming in short, shallow, unfulfilling bursts.

He had nearly reached their group, huffing and puffing, trying to pull in air that just wasn't coming. He didn't know what he'd do once he reached them. Probably beat the shit out of them if he could. Lucky for them, Lestrade caught him, arm across John's chest, holding him back.

"Come on, Lestrade!" he barked at the man holding him back. "You know it! We all know it! They don't belong here! Not today, not any day! They don't get to say goodbye.

John was struggling to push Lestrade off of him, but his grip was tight and John's inability to coordinate his hands, shaking as they were, meant that all he could so was wildly shove in the vague area of his chest.

"He's right. You all need to leave. Today is for John." Lestrade tried to keep his tone even, but he was exerting quite a bit of energy to keep John under control and it came out shaky at best.

Mycroft gave John a look of pity as he placed one hand on Donovan's shoulder and the other on Anderson's and they turned to leave as if trying to sneak away unseen, bowing their heads and shuffling. It was too late for that. The person it mattered to most had already seen.

"I don't want to see any of you ever again!" John called after them, still trying to get free.

Once they slipped into a cab, Lestrade let go, and John, unprepared to actually be released, fell on his hands and knees. He stared at the ground miserably, coughing and gaging, feeling his heart pound and his head throb. He choked out a sob.

He wanted to throw up. All of this made him want to throw up. This could not be happening. None of this could be happening.

He managed to stand through Sherlock's funeral, wringing his hands, his knuckles turning white, and, when that didn't satisfy him, he squeezed his fists so tightly that his nails, as short as they were, began to dig into his palm.

He liked the feeling. The sharp pain somehow made him feel better. It felt good to inflict on the outside what was happening on the inside. He felt like somehow the pain in his hand was letting out what he felt inside.

This is how he got started.

The therapy wasn't working. His therapist did the same thing she always did. She was condescending and scribbled her little notes on her pad of paper. John didn't even know why he went back to see her. She didn't help before and she wasn't helping now. The only thing that had ever helped John heal was Sherlock and he was dead. As the says, weeks, and months passed he felt worse and worse, less and less assured that he'd come out of this on the other side.

So, John found his own ways where his therapist failed. He closed himself up in 221B, talking to no one except Mrs. Hudson, who took him to Sherlock's grave one or twice and stopped by and made food for him every day. He was humiliated that she did this, but everything felt hard. Moving felt hard. Breathing felt hard, let alone making himself a meal or going out to a restaurant. He didn't have the motivation to take care of himself, not anymore.

He knew that he was supposed to be stronger, but that only fueled his misery. He was supposed to be the ex-soldier, the veteran who faced battle and came back alive. He was supposed to be strong and he was supposed to move on, but he had nothing to move on to. It was the hopelessness he felt when he returned from Afghanistan compounded with the misery of losing his best friend, the only thing that kept him from his emptiness. Now he was even emptier than before.

During his hours cooped up in the flat, he mostly slept but sometimes he cut.

He cut to let it all out. He cut to sooth the anxiety that made his insides feel like they were being stirred and his brain like it was being shaken. He cut to feel the pain he felt on the inside let out on the outside. When he cut, when he bled, it felt like the blood was taking some of the sadness with it. He cut to soothe the humiliation he felt because he cut. It was a never-ending circle.

But the sadness always came back and it was never enough.

This was the day when it had to end. He'd made up his mind. This was the day when he stopped being a failure, a Captain who couldn't go back to work, who couldn't even function, an army doctor who couldn't even take care of himself. This is the day when he stopped disappointing himself. This is the day when it ended.

He'd decided to give the day some symmetry. He dialed Sherlock's number, knowing that no one would pick up, but knowing that there was no other way to leave his note. Sherlock gave him his note in this way and so shall John. He pressed send and waited for the voicemail to beep.


	3. Chapter 3

**One last time: My rating is for self-harm, suicide attempt, and explicit sexual content (later). I'm sorry to anyone who finds this first bit triggering. I suffer from these things myself and I understand how triggering it can be to hear about it or read about it or see it in or on someone else. If you can believe it, writing this has helped me some.**

Sherlock stared at his phone in awe, an unusual feeling for him to be sure.

The phone glowed in the darkness, the caller ID clearly displaying: John Watson.

This had to be wrong. Sherlock couldn't think of any reason why John would be calling. As far as John knew, Sherlock was in his coffin. Why could he call? Feeling the familiar pangs of curiosity, confusion, and wonder, he wanted so badly to know, but he knew that he couldn't possibly answer, not now. There was only one assassin left and Sherlock had issued the hit notice as it were. It would only be a bit longer before he was free, before he could maybe call John himself.

He was left with just one option and he let the phone ring out, watching the name disappear from the screen. He was putting the phone back in his pocket when he was surprised once more by the pip of his phone. John had left him a voicemail.

Why? The question echoed in his head over and over. Though, this was a mystery to which he could find the answer. He unlocked his phone, of course noticing the slight shake of his hands and of course pretending that he didn't.

He pressed play and heard John's sadly weak voice play through the speakers.

"Hey, Sherlock." John paused. "I know that I'm not actually talking to you. I'm not that mad, but I needed to say some things. I need to say some things to you and this seemed appropriate."

Sherlock was confused, not a happy feeling for him. But what he felt, more than confusion, was hurt. John's voice was so small and he sounded so tired. Sherlock was used to John, the sometimes bumbling and always straightforward; he was used to the John that laughed with him, the one with the forceful voice maintained from back in his military days. This John, he sounded wrong. Sherlock felt the creeping of emotion and tried to push it down, but his heart swelled in a way that his identity couldn't protect him from.

"I miss you. You are my best friend and brought so much light to my life, but now that light's been snuffed out and I'm here in the dark. I can't keep fumbling in the dark, Sherlock. I just can't. This darkness, Sherlock, I can't navigate it. I can't find the way out of this maze and back into the light. So…So, I'm making my own way out. I miss you, Sherlock, and I…I love you. See you on the other side if you were wrong and it happens to exist."

Sherlock panicked. He knew what this meant now. He knew why John called him and he knew why John left him a voicemail message. He understood now and he understood that he had to act fast. He picked up his phone and shakily dialed for the paramedics, simultaneously jumping from his chair and racing to the door, jerking it open, not caring as it slammed loudly against the wall.

"221B Baker Street. Get an ambulance to 221B Baker Street," he commanded, his attempt at a cool and clear tone ruined by the shakiness in his voice. "Now."

"Suicide Attempt." The words hung in the silence ominously.

He ran to the street, heart pounding and mind swimming. He didn't have time to ensure that his mask, his identity, stayed firmly in place, so it slipped effortlessly and emotions poured in. He hailed a cab, barking the address at the cabbie, and as he sat watching the streets blur by him, he felt it all. Sadness, pain, panic, it all rained down on him mercilessly and all he could thing of was John, reaching John, saving John, and even maybe touching John.

The cab soon came to a slow. Sherlock knew, unfortunately, that was not because they'd reached the address. His new secret flat was horrifically far from his old one. It was the traffic, cars congesting the road, barely even inching forward. Not even taking the time to curse, Sherlock shot out of the cab, vaguely hearing the cabbie yell at him for running out on his cab fare. That didn't matter now.

He ran, superficially noticing the cold on his skin, having forgotten his jacket, but mostly feeling hot, feeling the heat of panic burning through him. His lungs wheezed, pulling in harsh, cold air only to be quickly pushed out again. His legs almost screamed in pain, having not been pushed this far in a long while. He mapped out his course in his head, thinking of the most efficient route, and careened down an alleyway.

Soon, though it felt like forever, he saw Baker Street. It felt like his heart had dislodged and plummeted into his stomach, no ambulance yet. He pushed through the front door and sprinted up the stairs two, sometimes three, at a time. He jiggled the door handle. Locked. He slammed his body weight against the door once, then twice, and it finally slammed open.

He saw John in a way that he was never prepared to see, lying in his usual chair with his head leaned back, legs laid out almost straight, both arms on the arm rests with palms upward. He could have looked just relaxed if he weren't bleeding profusely from a deep cut from wrist to nearly elbow on his left forearm.

"John!" Sherlock shouted, grabbing John's arm and applying pressure. His eyes searched frantically for some fabric or something to help him keep pressure. This was a big wound. He spotted one of his own shirts lying on the floor not far away and reached to grab it, careful not to let up on the pressure.

For what felt like another forever, they stayed there, John sitting on the chair and Sherlock crouching, holding John's arm, and looking at his face, for once not deducing, but in his panic memorizing, memorizing what John looked like now, the new John.

He didn't register the paramedics until they were around him, reaching for John.

"We have him now, sir. Step back, sir," said the clear elder of the two paramedics. His voice was calm and steady and Sherlock thought how nice it would be if he could be so calm in this moment.

"Right" was all he could muster and even then it was choked and hoarse.

Things were a blur as the paramedics worked and Sherlock stared at his hands, drenched in blood. This was not how things were supposed to go. He was supposed to "die", eliminate those who needed to be eliminated, and return. Nothing was supposed to happen to John. He "died" so that nothing would happen to John and yet here they were, John's blood literally on his hands.

It caught Sherlock's eye when the paramedics began to move John.

"I'm coming with you," Sherlock said, breaking his reverie. His voice was still shaking.

"Sir," the younger paramedic began, his tone trying to be soothing but stern. He would try to tell Sherlock that he couldn't come. He had another thing coming.

"I'm coming with you," he bit out, suddenly hit with anger. He annunciated every syllable, while giving the boy a sharp glare.

"We don't have time for this," the elder urged. "Just come on then."

Feeling a little satisfied, he wiped his hands off on his shirt and followed them out, closing the door on the way.

For someone who noticed everything, who lived in a frenzy of thoughts every day, today had so many blurs, too many. In the ambulance, everything happened around Sherlock and, other than effortlessly spouting out every relevant detail of John's medical history, he just sat, staring once more at John's face and holding John's hand in both of his, stroking the back with his thumbs and playing a bit with John's fingers.

He would fix this. John would live and Sherlock would fix this. Sherlock lived his life solving puzzles and piecing together elements; he would piece this back together, too.

**A big thank you to everyone who has followed, reviewed, and already favorited! As the writer, it feels beyond amazing to get this response.**

**REST ASSURED that this first bit was the most heavy and it will get better.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you to everyone who has followed or even favorited already! I really, really appreciate your support! Also, I admit to not being the best writer, so any input would be fantastic.**

Sherlock sat, fixed in the chair beside John's bed, and, as always, his hands were steepled under his chin as he wracked his brain for information. What was supposed to happen now?

This is one area Sherlock did not know much about. He did not know how these things went, what was supposed to happen. He knew how to see a corpse and deduce the history of the person, if they were depressed, if they had committed suicide, but, obviously, he never saw what would have happened if they had lived.

Though, even so, as he contemplated it, it seemed like maybe John's case was different.

Firstly, when they initially arrived, a nurse, once again, tried to tell Sherlock that he could not stay by John and then, before Sherlock could even say the biting comment that was right on the tip of his tongue, a doctor came up behind the nurse, whispered, and left. Then, suddenly, everything was fine. Sherlock could stay as he pleased and since then no one had bothered him. Secondly, while the nurses checked in with John every fifteen minutes, they did not look just at John, but him too and they took a ridiculous amount of notes, too many notes to be strictly relating to John's medical or mental state. So far, John had not woken up and his vitals were the same as ever; what was there to inspire such copious notes?

There was really only one answer here: Mycroft.

Pulling strings was what Mycroft did best. Mycroft no doubt knew what had happened and knew that Sherlock had resurfaced and had, therefore, pulled strings. He got Sherlock free visitation and placed John in a single room without a window so that no one from outside could see Sherlock, blocking any spying other than the spying Mycroft himself would do. Clearly, the nurses were doing one part of that job.

Sherlock supposed that he was appreciative for not having to leave, but that did not mean that he would be saying thank you. Mycroft had quite a few debts to pay both Sherlock and John. No, Sherlock would not thank him for doing what he should.

Mycroft was doing right by John, just as he would.

When he started to wake up, John first and foremost noticed the fuzziness. His mind felt so lethargic. Just trying to think was a feat. He wasn't sure where he was or how he got there. All he could tell was that he felt like shit. His brain was foggy, while being repeatedly pierced by the noises, which seemed unbearably loud, and how bloody bright it was. The beeping and bustling seemed to bang and bounce around in a mind that was too slow to keep up, cutting through building thoughts, and the more he tried to think, the more he was confused. Finally, he simply decided not to try to figure everything out at once, to not try to figure out much of anything at all in fact, hoping that maybe all those noises would sort themselves out.

Finally, he had a wish granted and everything began to slow down to his brain's pace again. However, the serenity was short lived.

He remembered.

"Fuck," he groaned, tearing open his eyes to see what he already knew was there.

His eyes still weren't prepared for the bright lights and he was reduced to a squint, but he tried to sit up. He needed to get out of here, but it seemed like getting up was going to be a feat as well. Everything was still so groggy. It was hard for him to feel his place in reality. He was floating in a vacant mind, but grounded by heavy limbs. It was like he was in a cement case instead of the same body he'd always had and his brain just floated around, captured. But he had to move; he had to go. So, he tried again and this time at least got himself upright.

The next task was to get out from under the covers, which felt like additional weights keeping him there, stuck. He went to push off the blanket, but in his disjointed state, he couldn't quite get his arm to go where he wanted it and there was this pull, this tightness.

That's when he finally looked at it, at the professionally wrapped bandage on his left forearm. He'd actually done it. The gauze hid away his actual handiwork, but he'd done it. Until now, he knew that he was in the hospital and knew why, but this, seeing his arm, really drove it home. He'd done it and failed. He reached out his right hand, wanting to take off the bandage, but, of course, misjudged the distance again, hitting his hand rather roughly against his arm and he hissed from the pain.

"John."

Amidst the beeps and whirs and people, his name, said so soft, felt like it came from some other world entirely. He wasn't sure it was real until a hand took his, guiding it away from its mission.

He looked up at its owner, confused as to how he'd missed that there was someone else in the room.

"Sherlock?" he said.

No, surely not. This couldn't be Sherlock. His eyes were still adjusting to the light and he was still squinting. This couldn't be Sherlock. And yet, it looked so much like him: the curly brown hair, the long face with long features, and the eyes with the ambiguous color. Where they green or blue or gray? It never seemed that they could be consistent enough to say for sure, just like Sherlock really.

"Yes, John."

It seemed like just a whisper, a ghost.

John tried to say something, but couldn't even form the thoughts to turn into words. He looked at his hand and the other hand holding it and looked back to the face of its owner and then repeated this action a few times.

"I'm," he began, his voice suddenly escaping him, "confused."

Sherlock's breath whooshed and he felt it tickle against his face. That's when he realized the whole scene, when he saw the whole image; though, he still wasn't sure if he trusted what he was seeing, if it was truly Sherlock in front of him. In any case, he had to take it all in somehow. He had to collect the details; isn't that what Sherlock had taught him? He mentally recorded that this man, who looked and, frankly, felt like Sherlock, was sitting on the right side of his hospital bed, holding his right hand both firmly, surely to keep him from his bandage, and gingerly, as if it would break with too much pressure in the wrong place. He was looking at John, straight on, with that familiar look in his eyes, collecting and analyzing the clues just as John was. He was smiling at little, too, as usual at a joke that John didn't catch.

Sherlock looked at John, who was clearly trying to read him, and he tried to suppress the smile that came from John's words, but could feel that he was not as successful as he had hoped. John, always a little baffled, was not so different from how he remembered. He

Probably should have planned ahead better in order to streamline John's comprehension. How did one go about successfully communicating that he was back from the dead?

Then it struck him. If John was still as bumbling, which he was, then, perhaps, Sherlock should explain this source of confusion the way he always did.

First the declaration of the conclusion: "I was never dead, John. I faked it," he confessed.

Next the illustration of the sign pointing to its truth: he took John's hand in his and placed in on his heart. Easy. The heartbeat was the sign of life after all.

He watched John process it all, watched the thoughts click together. He watched the look of confusion on John's face transform. He felt relief.

It took a moment or two, for, while John felt the fog and heaviness fading at long last, he was still not totally himself. Putting the improving clarity to work, he addressed the task at hand. Having heard the sentences, said with that definitive tone, and having felt the steady heartbeat with his own hand, the two started to intermingle in John's mind into an actual full-fledged verdict.

He understood and, for the first time since he woke up, his hand had actually fully obeyed his command.

He punched Sherlock square in the jaw.


	5. Chapter 5

**Special thanks to Ciel In A Dress, luv0817, and bookworm0902 for their reviews! Thank you so much for taking the time to give me your feedback! If I knew how to, I would address them each directly, but sadly I'm a bit clueless…**

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Of course, that would be when the nurse barged in, of course. John had just found out that his best friend was alive and then proceeded to sock him right in the face, so surely this would be the best time for a check-in.

"Oh, Mr. Watson, you're awake," she said, smiling at him so brightly and so widely that he was sure her face must hurt.

She was cheery, annoyingly cheery, with her tone so sweet. She was going to check on his bandage, for Christ's sake. Shouldn't she realize that he was in no mood for overly happy people? She was young though, maybe a bit younger than Molly, so perhaps she didn't have much experience with this kind of thing, with survivors of suicide attempts.

Oh, God, that's what he was now. He cringed at the thought. That was his new label. He would be John Watson, the doctor, the soldier, the captain, the veteran, the _suicide survivor_. He knew that he should just be glad to have lived and shouldn't think so poorly of the title, but, frankly, right now he just felt humiliated. Maybe the gladness would come later, but it was surely not what he felt now.

"Obviously," Sherlock mumbled, clutching his face, barely looking at her while spitting out his typical venom.

John smiled a bit at that, actually thankful for his friend's sour attitude and bad manners. He was thankful that Sherlock had interrupted where his thoughts were going, that Sherlock had dissipated some of the unbearable optimism radiating off of the nurse, that even after all of this shit Sherlock was still Sherlock. He was as smart-mouthed as ever.

"Are you okay, Mr. Holmes?" the nurse asked, trying to get a better look at Sherlock's face. She probably thought that Sherlock was just unpleasant because he was in pain. She couldn't conceive of the idea that he was just a dick. She still didn't give up when Sherlock resisted, turning farther away from her prying eyes silently, not even acknowledging her concern.

"He's fine," John said quickly. He coughed nervously and tried to force a smile, but it just wasn't happening. He was out of practice with his cover-ups.

"Toothache," Sherlock said quickly, giving the nurse a little forced smile before dropping it and turning away again.

Sherlock's cover-up wasn't much better, except that it was a little easier to believe because he'd already established his rudeness. This rudeness was, once again, surprisingly good for John because he needed this cover-up to pass inspection. His aggression certainly wouldn't be earning him any favors and it might get him stuck here even longer. If they found out he'd slugged his best friend, he'd probably be in big trouble and there was no hope for explaining it away. Telling a nurse that his friend had come back from the dead would very likely also extend his stay and John didn't want to be here any longer than he had to be.

"Oh, okay," she said, clearly unsettled. "Are we feeling okay, Mr. Watson?" she asked, hand poised to check off some of the boxes on the forms attached to her clipboard. She was obviously still trying to force an atmosphere of unwavering cheer, perhaps thinking that she could actually cure him with her own happiness. No such luck.

"He's fine, thank you. You can leave now," Sherlock said quickly, clearly losing his miniscule reserve of patience.

The nurse was quiet in her surprise, trying to find the words to stand up to Sherlock and insist that John answer, but her mouth hung open, with no words coming out.

"Yeah, I'm fine," John mumbled. "Thank you."

With that, the nurse darted towards the door, frantically scribbling notes on her clipboard.

Finally, Sherlock's hand dropped from his face. The bruise was not too bad, seeing as John had not been able to put his full weight into the swing, but it had been enough to inspire a little purple on Sherlock's jaw.

"Well, that was tedious," he groaned as soon as the door latched. Why could people not just leave them alone for a bit? All of these check-ups were so uselessly redundant. It was not like they did anything when they came by. They popped in and out and once they were gone nothing was different. Once again, idiotic people doing pointless things, being ordinary really was so predictably boring.

"They have to do that," John said with a sigh. "They have to check up on me to make sure that I won't try to off myself again while I'm here. I'm a liability."

Sherlock looked up at John, genuinely surprised by his explanation. He had honestly not thought of that. He thought that as long as John was medically fine, which he was, then the hospital staff should not have much else to do. But now that John mentioned his potentially precarious mental state, he supposed that it made sense. The hospital would want to keep its patients in good medical condition and any risk to that should be prevented. He also supposed that he had not thought of it because he had not fully noticed that John still looked unwell, not medically, but still unwell. He had been focusing on other things: finding John, helping John, and trying to figure out the hospital protocol in order to make predictions about when John might get to go home. Though now that John had said the words themselves and said them with more uncertainty than one would hope, he finally saw the new John and the differences that he was too distracted to see before.

He saw everything now, every detail that indicated that John had very much not been himself lately. He was pale, thin, and clearly not as well-kept as Sherlock remembered. The old John was not tan to be sure, but not as pale as this new John; this new John did not look like he had ever seen the sun. The old John was sturdy, robust, in shape from running on cases but not _skinny_, never skinny. The old John was a military man. He had his routine. He shaved every day and his hair was kept short. But the new John looked like he had only shaved a handful of times in the last six months and cut his hair only once.

John was different.

There it was again, the erosion, feelings weathering at his resolve. He tried to push it aside. This was not the time or place to be thinking about the best methodology for maintaining his sanity. Right now, it was John's sanity that needed contemplation.

Though, even so, Sherlock decided not to ask _the_ question, but instead decided to find out more about this unfamiliar procedure.

"When do we get to leave?" he asked, not quite as coolly as he was going for, but close enough. Maybe the edge in his voice could pass for agitation instead of what he actually felt.

"If you're bored, Sherlock, you don't have to stay," John replied, looking a bit anxious, in both the nervous and restless meanings of the word. John did not look at him when he spoke, but stared fixedly at his forearm, clearly a bit ashamed of the situation.

No, that would not do. Sherlock knew that now that he was back by John's side, he could not very well just leave. Plus, there was nowhere for him to go even if he wanted to, which he did not. Both his current flat and 221B were unappealing. They were so empty, meaningless, and here, if he must admit it, here was where the meaning lay.

Still not fully recovered from the last blow, there it was again: the feelings hitting another weak spot in his armor.

He stood up to get some space, for he was at serious risk here, and straightened his jacket, but even then, he did not seem able to move much farther. He tried to focus his eyes somewhere, anywhere but John, but it seemed that one thing Mycroft did not procure was decoration. Sherlock missed that window now. So, he just looked at the wall, noting every scuffmark and scrape.

"Nonsense," he insisted.

"Sherlock," John began, but no words came after it. He had something to say, but was not saying it. Sherlock never understood why John hindered himself this way, but he knew that John would not say what was truly on his mind and that it was therefore his job to figure it out for himself. It was a puzzle unlike the ones he was used to, but interesting in its own way.

He looked back at John, seeing the look of weariness on his face and seeing the confusion. Of course, Sherlock knew, and could see, that John had questions that he wanted answered about the jump, the hoax death, and the last six months, but what was perhaps less obvious to the untrained eye was that it seemed that John did not expect to get the answers. No, it seemed that what John expected was not clarity but to be left alone. In fact, he seemed resigned to the idea that he would be alone again. He did not expect the answers, because he did not expect the person holding them to stay. He perhaps thought Sherlock was being courteous in offering, but would disappear once the pity wore off. He ought to know that Sherlock did not play that game. He did not offer to do things that he did not want to do, but, at this moment, he suspected that John would not believe him if he said that. Therefore, he must reason with him another way.

"John, think. What would I even _do_ if I went back to the flat? No, if you are concerned about my boredom, you will realize that this is where I ought to be," he declared matter-of-factly.

"Sherlock, I'm not in the mood to entertain," John said, punctuated by a rather heavy sigh.

"Well, as I recall, I have some things to explain, so if you are up for listening, then I am up for talking," Sherlock said with a sly smirk.

"You always are," John replied, the familiarity of the situation seeming to override the surprise, and a little smile formed, subtle, but there all the same.


	6. Chapter 6

**A big thank you goes out to Raq90, ZoetheSka, and bookworm0902 for reviewing this time around! I really appreciate you taking the time!**

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John was frankly amazed that he'd actually get his answers. Logically, he knew he shouldn't be. Logically, he knew that Sherlock was his best friend and he was Sherlock's. Logically, he knew that even Sherlock wasn't so cold as to deprive his best friend of the answers he needed to make sense of everything, to maybe feel a bit better. Logically, he should have known that Sherlock would tell him everything in his own time.

But even with all of this logic telling him not to be so surprised, he still was. He'd still thought that he'd never know the answers. It wasn't exactly unusual for John to feel insecure around Sherlock; he never did fully know what was going on in Sherlock's complex mind anyway and he was tested so often, asked questions with the expectation that he'd picked up on things when he almost always hadn't. But this insecurity, it felt different, just like this surprise wasn't like the surprise he usually felt around Sherlock. It wasn't awe.

"It's not really so shocking that I would be accommodating, is it John? You're hurting my feelings," Sherlock said jokingly. Rather, in the way that Sherlock joked, in which his tone didn't necessarily obviously sound like a joke, though people who knew Sherlock could usually hear the joke in his voice. But, the hint really was in his expression. This seemed something that should be obvious, being able to see when someone was joking by his or her face, but Sherlock had never been normal. With Sherlock, it was his eyes that really showed you when he teasing or some sort, not always a smile. A smile could be many things with Sherlock, but there was always that glimmer in his eyes.

"You're such a bastard," John grunted. Leave it to Sherlock to crack a joke and turn a situation back on him. He loved to do that. He loved to turn the tables this way. When he could see John getting worked up, he'd do his trick, his flip of perspective. It was annoyingly effective.

"True, but you have always known that."

There was that little, lovely, knowing smile that John had remembered quite fondly. It didn't make his anger or sadness go away, of course. No look could be that strong. But, it did make him feel a little more comfortable, like this was not the most bizarre situation in the world. The familiarity of their banter, of Sherlock's selfishness and sarcasm, actually made him feel like he could says what he had to say, that he shouldn't feel so afraid to let it out. It was Sherlock. They took each other's shit all the time.

"Just tell me why, Sherlock," he said, trying to sound stern and collected, but it didn't come out that way. "Just tell me why you would jump from a building, why you would fake your suicide, why you would-."

His voice, which already wavered more than he wished, cracked with that last bit. He hated the vulnerability of it, but he'd let that smile convince him to let it out, so here he was.

Sherlock's breath all came out in one whoosh and then, as quickly as he let it out, he drew it all back in again. With that, he crossed his arms behind his back and stood up straight, looking as if he were ready to face the firing squad. Though, John supposed that from Sherlock's perspective this situation was sort of a one-man firing squad.

"Moriarty had snipers, three of them. There were three shooters, three bullets, three targets: Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and _you_. I, of course, saw something like this coming and had something arranged, but I'd hoped not to have to use it. I hoped that I would outsmart Moriarty, but when he died, my chances of that died, too. You see, John, I did not have a choice," Sherlock explained rapidly. He took no time to pause or think. He knew what words to say and in what order. John always envied that.

"Snipers," John repeated contemplatively, trying to put the memory of _that_ day into a different perspective.

He'd seen the memory too many times before, when he really didn't want to. It didn't matter if he was asleep or awake; the memory still popped into his mind. Now, he was actually trying to see the scene again, but with guns pointed at him, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. It was difficult to merge the two images together, his and Sherlock's, but he tried nonetheless.

"So, you had to appear dead so that the snipers wouldn't shoot, but then what? What were these last six months for?" John originally felt so proud of his tone, for it sounded like when Sherlock would list his conclusions, but then he faltered. He wasn't Sherlock. He couldn't keep the sternness going; he just felt too much too transparently.

"To keep up the ruse. The orders were to kill if I was not dead. That did not end just on that day. If I had come back, I am certain that the snipers would have taken up their orders again and I could not risk it." Inadvertently showing the exact skill John just wished he'd had, Sherlock maintained his steady tone, deadpan. It sounded like he had a clear head; meanwhile John's was swimming.

"You couldn't tell me? You couldn't let me in?" John asked, voice laced with the intertwining threads of anger, dejection, and disappointment. There seemed no hope for hiding it anymore.

"Remember Irene Adler, John. Remember that she faked her death too and it worked until she started telling people that she was alive again. I wanted to tell you, John, I did, but I could not risk exposing myself and, by extension you, before my work was done and I had taken care of everything," Sherlock explained emphatically. He finally slumped out of his defensive stance and sat back down on the bed rather heavily, all the while gesticulating like mad. Finally, there was the emotion.

"Taken care of everything?"

"I had to locate each sniper and eliminate him," Sherlock stated, clearly thinking about how cool that made him sound, like a spy or something.

"You? Kill a trained sniper?" John asked, scoffing a bit at the idea.

"Okay, no, not me personally," Sherlock mumbled, the way he always did when someone, basically only John, called his bluff.

"So, everything is taken care of then," John confirmed, but with that little inadvertent upturn in his tone that always betrayed his uncertainty and showed the underlining question.

"Not quite, but soon I expect."

"So, then why are you here? Shouldn't you be underground somewhere in your secret tactical lair?" He chuckled a bit at his own cleverness. Oh, God it felt good to joke.

"I got your message."

"Oh." His smile dropped as the word fell from his lips.

Shit.

Obviously, he hadn't thought that Sherlock would actually hear his message, so knowing he had was more than a little embarrassing. His memory had been merciful at least that detail slip his mind, but with that prompting the whole thing came back crystal clear. The things he said, well primarily _the_ thing he'd said, was not something that Sherlock should have heard, especially not that way.

"Listen, Sherlock-" he started with a heavy groan.

"Don't bother," Sherlock abruptly interjected.

"What?" he said, squinting at Sherlock in his disbelief. Sherlock was always crass, but this was beyond that.

"You don't ask me to explain mine and I won't make you explain yours."

Oh, Sherlock wasn't being extraordinarily crass; he was actually being exceptionally nice.

"That sounds like a good deal to me," John agreed.

"Good." The surprises seemed to be never-ending as Sherlock placed his hand on John's shoulder. Leaning quite a bit of his weight on that arm, Sherlock lolled his head against it, looking up from under his bangs and his long eyelashes. He smiled a bit again and said, "Now on to a more pleasant topic, please."

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**Also, sorry for bombarding you all with updates all the time. I just have a lot of time right now and know that it won't last much longer, so I have to enjoy it while I can! **


	7. Chapter 7

As quickly as Sherlock put his hand on John's shoulder, he took it away, but he didn't move from sitting on John's bed. He stayed sitting there, one leg tucked under him and the other hanging off the edge. He was facing John straight on and finally John got to really look at him. Before he was too caught up with the bright lights, then the nurse, and then the questions to really pay attention to how Sherlock had changed. He had paid too much attention to what proved that this was Sherlock to really see what didn't totally match up.

He was skinnier, but John supposed that wasn't so surprising. Sherlock was never much about maintaining three meals each day, sometimes not even having one. Usually, there was at least downtime in between cases, but it sounded like the last six months were three investigations and where one ended the next immediately began. All of this ongoing deducing and thinking that he'd been doing probably meant that he hadn't taken much time for eating at all. This also explained why he looked so tired and John guessed that if Sherlock hadn't already been so extraordinarily pale, he probably would have been paler than normal. Though, less expectedly, his hair was shorter and, in being shorter, it was less obscenely curly, more sporadically so while mostly wavy. It also didn't look like a very good haircut. John wondered whom Sherlock would let cut his hair like that, though, obviously, Sherlock could not go to just anyone, not when he was supposed to be dead.

It wasn't until he lingered on Sherlock's face, and therefore his expectant expression, that he remembered that he was supposed to be saying something, not picking apart the details of his best friend's appearance.

"Oh, yeah, sure, absolutely," John said awkwardly. Though now that he thought of it, he couldn't come up with a good topic off the top of his head. He didn't have much to say about much of anything, because, to be honest, he hadn't done much of anything. Also, he couldn't think of anything to ask Sherlock that didn't somehow relate to his six-month absence. It seemed like everything eventually came back to how long they had been apart. He supposed, then, since it didn't seem like Sherlock was going to offer anything either, he would just try to pick the least sad of the possible topics. "So, uh, how're you going to reintroduce yourself into the world of the living?"

"I'll just go back to work," Sherlock stated simply, as if it wouldn't be a big deal, as if he could just walk back into Scotland Yard and everything would go back to the same.

"You can't do that!" John insisted.

"No?" he asked, raising his eyebrow in the way he did when he was just begging for someone to question his logic. He would not be disappointed, though this time he would be proven wrong.

"Sherlock, you can't just phone up Lestrade and ask for cases! Much less show up at the crime scene just like that!" His impulse was to shout, but he thought it a bad idea. He didn't want any more outside attention than he had to get. So, while he kept his volume low, he tried to stress his sternness all the same. Sherlock had to know that this wouldn't go over well.

"Why?" Sherlock groaned, contorting his face in disgust.

John could see that the dramatic flair hadn't gone away, not that he wanted it to. There were some things about Sherlock that would certainly not be missed, but this was one that John rather enjoyed most of the time. He really never did get bored. Sherlock was always doing something ridiculous.

"Because no one else sees it like you just went on vacation! Not many have seen someone come back from the dead, Sherlock. In fact, it just seems to be the habit of people who run in your circle."

It looked like instead of getting Sherlock's answer to his question, John would be making it for the idiot. Sometimes, Sherlock's lack of understanding of social dynamics was truly remarkable. For someone who evaluated them in his deduction of motive, he never seemed to get how it applied to him. Sherlock was never able to account for that one particular, important variable: himself.

"This isn't a coming out party, Sherlock. You have to do it in a more controlled way, see the most important people first, and then work your way outwards. It also has to definitely be _in person_, but_ not_ in public," John listed off.

"That's so wearisome. Wouldn't it be more efficient just to do everything at once?" Sherlock insisted. As always, he trusted the logic of efficiency, but couldn't grasp the very inexact practice of interpersonal relationships.

"Maybe efficient, but you'll be pushing a lot of people's buttons and you're more likely to get punched again that way. People get a bit bent out of shape if they feel like they're an afterthought and even though you do that all the time, this is too big," John explained.

"Very well," Sherlock acquiesced. He supposed that he ought to follow John's advice. He was more fluent socially after all. Plus, he had been punched more than enough times in his life. "I guess we'll start with Mrs. Hudson once we leave." Once John gave his small nod of approval, Sherlock remembered that this particular piece of information was still missing. "You never did tell me when we could leave."

"I'm not sure, actually," John admitted.

"Let's see what we can do," Sherlock proposed, with a slight smile.

The game was on. He had missed this fun. Life was so _boring_ in his new flat. He was always alone and never able to do his own footwork so he was _always_ there. While solving the puzzle of the three snipers was interesting enough at first, working on the same puzzle for six months lacked the intrigue that he so loved in the murder cases or abductions. Everything became a blur of the same: the same problem, the same solution. He would have found the idea of breaking John out of the hospital much less interesting if he had not spent so long doing the same thing day in and day out.

Plus, there's no harm in admitting that some of the fun came from having his companion back. It does no damage to his identity to admit that having someone by his side was enjoyable. Though, it might cause a few cracks to fully investigate why he so enjoyed John's company. Anyhow, John was a good colleague. His observations, as insubstantial as they usually were, were useful and John complimented him.

John also complemented him.

It was with this awareness that Sherlock was also struck with the secondary realization that this reunion was making it harder and harder to push these types of thoughts out of his head. This could be problematic.

"Oh, God, Sherlock. What are you thinking?" John groaned, uneasily.

Sherlock expected John to be a little uncomfortable with the idea, but he also heard and saw a bit of genuine worry in his companion. He laughed a bit at this, feeling good to forget his former line of thinking in favor of a bit of laughing at his friend. John really needed to get back into the swing of things. Sherlock was certain that John's love of danger and adrenaline would kick in again as soon as they had some real action.

"Nothing too bad. We just need to convince our very obliging nurse that you ought to be released. Seeing as she doesn't seem particularly bright, this shouldn't be that hard. Your part is easy, just smile and pretend that her rays of sunshine have touched your soul or what ever insane goal she had in mind when she decided that peppiness is what this place really needed," Sherlock explained quickly.

This felt great, just like it used to be. He could give the game plan, John could be in awe of the result, and they could both have a bit of fun along the way.

"Alright, Sherlock. I just hope this works," John sighed, running his hand through his hair in a combination of fluster and hesitation. The unusual hair length attributed to how awkwardly it fell back on John's face. That would have to be the first thing to go.

"Where is your faith, John? Did you see her? She is obviously starved for recognition and craves the feeling that what she does matters. So, play to that and we'll be golden. Now, it's been about fifteen minutes so she should be back any second. Get ready," he instructed with an amount of glee that John would probably label "not good" if he were not so focused on his own imminent performance.

As evidence, John tensely tried to fake a smile, but it was severely lacking. Sherlock supposed that John was never very good at that. His emotions were always right there for the world to see.

"Smile, John," he commanded cheerfully. "You now know the meaning of life because of a mediocre nurse with a senselessly large quantity of optimism who thinks that the best place for her _talents_ is with the likes of the two of us. She's the Jesus to your born-again optimist, how _wonderful_."

John gave a short chuckle at that; he had to admit that it was pretty ridiculous.

"Good," Sherlock said, shooting up from his seat on the bed and positioned himself standing beside the head of John's bed, placing his hand back on John's shoulder. He explained to himself that this gave a friendly air to the situation, gave the impression that they had just been hanging out. Sherlock told himself that it definitely was not that he had felt the urge to _comfort_ of all things, that he had seen John's hesitation and felt like reassuring him. No, it must all be part of the act.

Right on time, the nurse entered the room. She was clearly more nervous than previously, her hand clutching the clipboard a little too tightly, but still tried to give off her aura of optimism with her unnaturally wide grin.

"Oh, nurse!" Sherlock said, laying on the charm. "John and I were just talking about you! You know, we really feel that we need to express our gratitude. We know that we didn't show it well last time, but we really appreciate you. In fact, John just told me that he thought that you really reminded him of the joy in life. Isn't that right, John?"

"Oh," John exclaimed, surprised that he'd been called on. "Oh, yeah, I thought the world was all bleak and gloomy, especially with this rude one for company," he began, gesturing with his thumb over his shoulder at Sherlock, "but you really reminded me that there are still people who find the joy in the little things."

Sherlock thought that John's selling had not been perfect, the twinge of unsureness still present in his tone, but John was the kind of person who seemed truthful, so it was just good enough to slide.

"Thank you," the nurse said, positively beaming. "I'm so glad that you feel better!"

"Yes, John's only sadness now is that he cannot go home and share this new revelation with our friends," Sherlock continued, hoping that the nurse would pick up on the implication, while he also hoped that John might pick up on the reference. He forced a nice smile and looked down at John to make sure that he was following suit. He was, in fact he was actually trying to hold back a little laughter. John got it.

"Well, uh, seeing as Mr. Watson is stable and happy, I guess he doesn't necessarily need to stay. We usually have a longer-"

"Oh, good!" Sherlock exclaimed, cutting her off before she could reconsider the policy. "We don't want to take up a bed when there are many more poor souls who need your help."

"Well, I'll just go get Mr. Watson's clothes and he'll have to sign some papers," she chirped, before turning around with a very noticeable extra bounce in her step.

"You're evil," John ridiculed with a laugh once the door was shut behind her.

Sherlock found himself liking the sound of that laugh, wanting it to continue. He also found himself wondering if that want was okay, if it fit in with the person he was supposed to be. He was having a hard time figuring out what was justifiable and what was not. Things seemed to overlap. He knew it was okay to do things that made him happy. That was what this was all for after all. But, when making John laugh and, by extension, making him happy became something he wanted he was not sure where that fit in. He was supposed to think only of preserving himself, but he found himself thinking of John and what would help to preserve _him_.

"Though I guess the good part is that she will hopefully never know that," John added after a moment's pause, interrupting that line of analysis.

"Indeed and now you're free," Sherlock said absentmindedly. "Once, she gets back, put your trousers on quickly and let's go before a higher up hears of it."

"Sure thing. Sherlock, have you seen my cane?" John asked as he began to sit up, shoving his covers off and swinging his legs off the bed.

Sherlock could not help but look at John in confusion before it dawned on him. Of course, John's limp was psychosomatic, trauma-related. He once sustained an injury, the circumstances of which were traumatic and so the cane. This cane of course disappeared when the need of the moment overcame the reassurance invested in the object, but it seems that circumstances have since reversed that. Sherlock knew that John found his fake death traumatic and so, surely, if there was an instance in which the pain came back that coincided with that event, then John might take up the cane again. It was a crutch, how literal.

"Don't judge me," John stated stiffly, massaging his leg. "I can tell that you've been smoking."

"Don't remind me," Sherlock groaned loudly, roughly rubbing his hand across his face. "I've been aching for one since we got here. One more reason to _leave_."

Sherlock was growing more and more impatient with each passing moment; the closer the opportunity got, the less he wanted to wait for it. Blessedly for the ruse, the nurse came back quickly and gave John all of the things he needed and, while John changed, Sherlock stood outside with the nurse and managed to continue to shower sickly sweet praise on her and flash that fake smile that always works on Molly, though he hardly paid attention to what he was saying. At this point, for Sherlock as long as it sounded nice, it would pass.

When John _finally_, emerged Sherlock had wasted so much breath that, without another word, he took John by the arm and tucked it in with his. He was _not_ waiting to find out about a cane. John looked at him with surprised, but he ignored it. He knew how it looked and he knew people would talk, but, as he always said, they do little else.

Speaking of someone who loved to talk, particularly _at_ Sherlock, as soon as they stepped foot on the sidewalk, Sherlock's phone began to ring obnoxiously.

"Unless this is a 'mission accomplished' phone call, I don't want to hear it, Mycroft," he snapped as soon as he pressed answer.

"Not yet, but so you know, little brother, I _have_ heard that you and John are leaving the hospital," Mycroft calmly and, as per usual, condescendingly informed him.

"I knew you would."

"Do you really think it's a good idea for him to leave the hospital in his state? Especially with only you as company?" Mycroft continued as if Sherlock had said nothing.

"I don't need your input, Mycroft," he reiterated, not that Mycroft would listen anyway.

"Sherlock, be reasonable. We both know that when it comes to caring, you only care for yourself. You're not fit to watch out for someone who's suicidal when you can't be bothered to look beyond yourself.

"Fuck you, older brother," Sherlock said as calmly as possible.

With that, he hung up the phone call and unceremoniously thrust his middle finger in the air in the direction of the closest surveillance camera.

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**Wow, this is long. Oops. **

**Also, for any of you who are frustrated by the pace of the story, rest assured that from here it picks up some. **


	8. Chapter 8

**Thank you to everyone who has favorited, followed, and reviewed! (I'm getting on answering those soon I promise!)**

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Despite Sherlock's clear show of defiance, one of Mycroft's typical black town cars still pulled up to the curb in front of them and the driver stepped out to open the door for them.

Sherlock groaned loudly. Why could Mycroft not just leave him alone for a day? Why did he always have to assert his dominance and try to prove that he knew better? Ever since they were kids, Mycroft told him how it was with his haughty tone.

"Mr. Holmes says that he would like to remind you that no one is supposed to see you. He says that you can't just walk around the streets or take a taxi," the driver vocalized nervously, not looking up from his shoes. Clearly, Mycroft's temporary mouthpiece was used to opening doors, but not speaking.

Sherlock was ready to remain determined and stubborn until John roughly elbowed him with the arm he held. He then looked down at his companion who looked back at him with a look that was a seemingly impossible mix of pleading and commanding.

"Fine," he sighed, rolling his eyes dramatically, and with that they both slipped into the back of the annoyingly familiar car.

Once seated and situated, Sherlock released John's arm, which he took back slowly, his fingers dragging a bit against Sherlock's arm and hand, and he looked at Sherlock's hand all the while, gaze remaining even after they no longer touched.

From then on, things felt like a strange mixture of familiar and different. It was same old John, telling him how to behave and dealing with the aftermath of when he did not, but then there was this new John who lingered. He was slower in most actions, slower in moving away, slower in looking away.

When they saw Mrs. Hudson, who, after putting her hands to her chest and wiping the tears from her eyes, pulled the two together in a joint hug, Sherlock again noticed that John was slow in pulling back and slow in scanning Sherlock, looking him up and down in careful contemplation.

When Lestrade came over on John's invite, unknowingly walking into a reunion, Lestrade vocalized some nonsensical blubbering while he struggled to find words and then some yelling once the words came. Then, after all that, Lestrade clapped one hand on each of their shoulders, roughly bumping the two together and, again, John lingered, moving back from the collision with such care, rubbing his already testy left shoulder vacantly.

Sherlock knew what this meant of course. Even if he let John leave his voicemail unexplained, Sherlock remembered. Even if he wanted to forget, he could not, not only because he had an incredible memory, but also because it echoed in his mind with each of these events. He felt the draw of John's hand across his arm, John's shoulder dragging across his chest, and the intensity of John's gaze on his face and he remembered.

Though, he remembered not just John's message, but his own. Mostly, he remembered how he _felt_, remembered how he had let himself feel, remembered the pain of it, remembered the perverse beauty of this intermingling of hurt and liberation, remembered those last moments when he wished to return to John instead of jump, remembered thinking of what he would say when he got to John's side. But, he never said any of those things and that liberation was squashed now by self-preservation, the need to work and survive the last few months outweighing the moment's deliverance. Yes, Sherlock understood why John lingered.

Or at least he had thought so.

"It's good you're home, Sherlock. John has missed you," Mrs. Hudson said the day after his return, while instinctively picking up discarded items from around the room. John was upstairs in his room, but Mrs. Hudson did not seem to care about him overhearing. "Maybe, you will be able to put that pep back in his step. He's gotten a little sluggish without your dashing about."

With this, Sherlock realized that maybe he did not really understand what this new John was like, what the changes meant. Maybe, John was slower in leaving a room not because Sherlock was there, but because he did not have the same energy or the zest anymore. Sherlock was suffering a bit from a reverse form Observer Effect, he supposed. He was assuming that his presence was the entire causation for the observed result. He was using a simple observation to create a simple explanation, when truly there were multiple variables at play, truly stupid, and perhaps oddly hopeful, of him. His self-absorption was getting in the way. Maybe, Mycroft was right. Maybe, he could not help John. Not when he could not do what he did best, when he could not even discern John's full reasons.

No, that could not just be it. He could not just resign to failing.

He had to do something, figure something out. He swore to piece everything back together, so that was what he would do. He just had to revisit the profile of John that he had put together and adjust it. He would research online and study John himself, applying the background information to the unique situation. He just had to assume nothing, observe without the lens of the past.

As if on cue, John came, rather loudly down the stairs from his bedroom. Sherlock looked up lazily, taking his chin from the tips of his fingers, hands posed in the typical fashion, as if he was praying, but he never was. The thoughts still buzzed around his head as he tried to take in all of John. No detail was too small.

The first thing Sherlock noticed was the cane, especially with the noise of John's blundering. For sure, that was one thing to be addressed and catalogued. Obviously, Sherlock already knew it was ultimately unneeded. He knew it was a crutch. Nevertheless, in this new evaluation of John, nothing could be overlooked. He had to look also at how John viewed himself. He knew that John knew it was superfluous. He said as much as at the hospital. He compared it to the smoking, something that comforted Sherlock but was ultimately unnecessary. To John, the cane was what held him upright in a literal and metaphorical sense. Conclusion: John felt that he could not hold himself upright on his own.

Next, his hair, something that Sherlock had unhappily taken note of before. John has separated himself from his military ritual, from order, suggesting a separation from the identification. Though, when combined with the fact that it did not seem like John ate a lot or preformed a lot of his regular maintenance habits, it also suggested that John did not care as much about keeping up appearances or, further, did not care as much about maintaining himself.

This struck Sherlock with a deep sadness, something he tried very hard not to feel. The point of being who he was, was to not feel things like this. He was a high-functioning sociopath; empathy was against the rules. And yet, stating the fact did little to abate the feeling. It did not make the sentiment go away. This sentiment lingered, too, all day, every day, eating at his reserve.

He needed a distraction.

"John, I'm bored," he stated plainly.

At first, John said nothing, simply slumping down into the chair opposite him as casually as his leg and the stiff chair allowed him. It was the new chair. The old one was thrown out for obvious reasons. Sherlock _had _picked up on that piece of John's sadness and dealt with it quickly.

"Not a surprise," John finally stated. "Not sure why you even tell me. There's never anything for me to do about it."

John meant for that to sound less pathetic, but unfortunately it sounded way less like a joke than he had hoped and betrayed how directionless he felt. This is not to be mistaken for not being happy that Sherlock was back. He was quite glad to have his best friend back. This is what he had hoped for; for six months he had wished for this miracle. But, now that he had it he wasn't sure what to do. They didn't have a case and it didn't seem like that would happen anytime soon. So, in the absence of their usual diversion, they had reunions, which actually went better than John thought they would. John had expected Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson would be angrier, but they were mostly surprised and happy. John guessed that maybe, once Sherlock revealed himself, they realized that it was not all so shocking that Sherlock would pull something like that.

But, it shocked John and continued to shock John still. He still looked at Sherlock, amazed that he was actually in front of him. He knew he wasn't mad enough to hallucinate, but the situation still felt so unreal, so dream-like. He had hoped for this miracle, but he never thought that it would actually happen or what it would mean if it did. Yes, John was beyond happy that Sherlock was back, but he just wished he felt more able to embrace it, wished it did more than slightly decrease the amount he cut. Surely, most of his sadness was gone and with it a bit of his cutting, but still this emotional ache remained and so did the pull.

"Actually, I know exactly what we should do," Sherlock said with a sly smile. John knew not to trust that look.

"Oh, no, Sherlock, you cannot have my gun," John insisted.

"Not necessary. I just need your clippers," he stated in that usual Sherlock way, the way that was so remarkably flat that it was almost funny.

"My clippers?" John asked skeptically.

"Yes, John," he said quickly, sighing at having to repeat himself. "Your hair is annoying me. It's distracting."

Of course, Sherlock wanted to cut his hair because it was distracting to him, because it bothered him. Of course, Sherlock hoped to amuse himself by playing with John's appearance. But, even though this was an obvious use of John solely as entertainment, John really didn't care. If Sherlock wanted to cut his hair, then John was going to let him. It wasn't as if he really cared for his hair anyway, it was just a byproduct of his slothful ways since Sherlock's supposed death. It needed to be cut, it gave them something to do, and it ought to be quite amusing. Just imagining Sherlock trying to figure out how the clippers worked was amusing enough to outweigh the nervousness he had about how it might turn out.

"You're going to cut my hair? That's your great plan to be less bored?" John asked, mostly for confirmation but also surprised by the sudden realization that this was quite _domestic_ of them.

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed, his former sly smile turning into a genuine almost-grin.

"Alright. Just as long as it doesn't look as bad as yours," John joked, looking pointedly at the inconsistent length of Sherlock's hair.

"Shut up," Sherlock shot back and with that he got up to fetch John's clippers from the bathroom.

This endeavor went about as hilariously as John thought it would, from ridiculing Sherlock for not understanding what combs resulted in what length to Sherlock ridiculing him right back for being so easy to manipulate. John felt a weight fall from over him and it wasn't just his excess hair. They weren't really doing anything, but they didn't have to. They were having a good time just messing around, literally making a mess. Maybe, he didn't have to worry so much about finding direction. Maybe, little things like this would cement for him the reality of Sherlock's return. Maybe, little things like this would help him to get better.

In all of this fun, John also thought about his message, not in the mortified way that he had been, but thinking about what it really meant. He had planned out what to say ahead of time, but as soon as the message began, most of that plan went out the window. He didn't plan to tell Sherlock that he loved him. He didn't even understand fully why he said that. Of course, he had always had inklings of feelings for Sherlock and he'd always been attracted to Sherlock, but he never understood how or why.

All those times he told people he was straight, he had meant it. He was used to being straight, for most of his life he had liked and loved women. _But_, he also had thoughts, thoughts that he didn't understand. John superficially understood what it meant to be gay, straight, or bi, but none of those ever felt totally right. It made him feel like an outsider. He didn't feel like he properly fit into any part of this ternary system. Gay wasn't accurate, because he had clearly been with women. Bi wasn't accurate because it implied, to him at least, that it was an equal division and so far, if he had to admit it, he only felt significantly about one man, which made straight also inaccurate.

What was he supposed to do then? He wasn't sure and, while this mystery existed, he felt he had no choice but to retreat to what he was used to: calling himself straight. After all, he and Sherlock certainly weren't a thing, so there was no concrete evidence that he wasn't straight.

No concrete evidence other than the unparalleled happiness he got from joking with Sherlock, the hitch in his breath that sometimes happened when Sherlock laughed his deep, gravely laugh, and the stomach-churning feeling that he got when Sherlock ran his long fingers through his hair as he weeded out the chopped off pieces.

He knew Sherlock could probably tell that he was behaving oddly, the way he was looking at him, but John had nothing to say about it for now. John wasn't sure what he was and, until he figured it out, he didn't know what to make of all this.

He just knew that he liked being here with Sherlock.


	9. Chapter 9

**Just a warning for readers: I am super interested in sexuality theory and what it means for both John and Sherlock, so I include it in the story. I've been told that I shouldn't bother and I've considered cutting it out but I find it important. **

As usual, Sherlock was spread out along the couch. Though, not quite as expectedly, a cigarette was perched between his fingers and a smooth stream of smoke passed through his mouth. It was actually quite odd to be doing this, especially when literally under John's nose; John was upstairs after all. Clearly, he could smell the smoke, but Sherlock supposed the only reason why John did not come stomping down to rip the cigarette from his fingers was because he knew it would be returned with a snide remark about his own comfort object.

So, for now, they both left each other's security blankets well enough alone.

Though, Sherlock was concocting a plan to get rid of John's, even if it meant potentially having to give up his smoking again in the near future. He had elected to give it up before on his own, so he could again under the duress and encouragement of his closest companion.

This logic should be more reassuring. He should believe in his resolve. But, the smoking was just so phenomenally good at slowing the world down. He gave up the cocaine, but he needed something. Everything buzzed in his head constantly and minute details bounced around like mad. He looked at something as simple as a wall and noticed numerous ultimately unnecessary and minuscule features. Even if he closed his eyes, he could still hear all of the little noises; whether it was John groaning or the refrigerator whirring, he focused in on it and evaluated the origin and potential meaning without even trying. He could not just stop thinking, not without some help that is. The smoking slowed everything. Breathe in, breathe out, smell the scent, taste the tang. It was simplicity in a sea of variables and intricacies.

Right now, he very much needed this slowing, for when he was left to himself with nothing to do, which was quite often now, his thoughts drifted ruthlessly to John. He thought about John all the time now, noting John's actions and expressions, evaluating their meanings, trying not to feel what he felt when he arrived at those meanings, and, unfortunately, thinking about those feelings far too much for his liking.

He felt _sad_ and _guilty_, but also _happy_ and _fond_. He _hurt_ when he thought of John's current sadness, even more so when he thought about John's former torment. He could hardly bear to think of what lay beneath John's shirtsleeve; his only salvation being that he would feel _elated_ at the return of John's little looks, little actions, the little things that made John like no one else, though he would swiftly remember what it was like, what it could have been like, not to see them.

It was exhausting to bounce back and forth so. It was also getting harder and harder to stay in control.

"Hey, Sherlock," John called as he once again came lurching noisily down the stairs. "We've actually had a hit on the blog."

"Oh, really," Sherlock replied coolly. He really did not care much at all about John's blog. Sure, sometimes he would deign to comment on a post or something, but on the whole he cared very little about what was put there.

"I hadn't posted in a while, but I just checked up on it and there was a potential case just sitting there," John said with a bit of a laugh that lacked substance.

He looked lazily over at John, who was now sitting in his new usual chair, his cane discarded on the floor and his laptop perched on one knee, which seemed rather odd, seeing as the computer, one of the few items John had of significant monetary value, should not be balanced rather precariously on only one knee. John's leg was bothering him more than usual, which was also odd on its own. John also seemed as determined as ever to avoid _the _topic, the one they were supposed to be talking about, but if John did not want to talk, Sherlock was not going to push it, not now anyway, not when he still felt so _guilty _and so over his head. He needed to balance himself before he could balance John.

This cigarette was proving to be catastrophically _disappointing _in slowing his mind. It seemed nothing he did now would slow the continuous stream of John-related information gathering.

Though, maybe there was something.

Sherlock sat up quickly, putting out his cigarette in a long forgotten mug of tea with one hand and reaching out swiftly for the laptop with his other, to which John sighed and, deciding not to fight it, handed the laptop over promptly.

Sherlock was not particularly hopeful for an intriguing case, but he was in dire need of a diversion, not likely to get anything else with Lestrade stuck as sergeant and his own existence being largely unknown.

He speedily read over the message from a Professor Etherege. Her teaching assistant was missing apparently. Not the type of guy to leave work unattended; this professor suspected foul play. There was no ransom or anything of the sort; he had just disappeared. The police had given up quickly and she was dissatisfied. This was quite low on the interest scale, but really he had no alternatives. They were in dire need of a kick-start, some way to get back to the way things were.

He knew Mycroft would get on him about staying indoors, off the street. The job was still not done. These things always took much longer than Sherlock would hope. Mycroft promised soon, but it was not soon enough. They needed this now. The sooner they got back on the cases, the sooner they could reinstate normalcy. Besides, they could keep this controlled. He would use his most trusted on the homeless network and, anyway, John was always better at getting people to share not just details but personal ones.

"Sounds fine," Sherlock declared, slumping roughly back down onto the couch.

"What?" John replied, looking at him with surprise.

John had brought Sherlock the case, but he never expected Sherlock to actually agree to it. He expected some groan, roll of the eyes, declaration of boredom, but not _that_ much boredom, and maybe a little dig at the blog if he was feeling particularly cranky. But, here Sherlock was agreeing to a case that contained no murder and seemingly little complexity. He must be desperate.

"I said it sounds fine," Sherlock repeated, not as ornery as usual though, which was another nice surprise for John.

"Really?" John asked. He genuinely wanted whatever explanation came with this rather uncharacteristic move, even though he knew he would get a rise out of Sherlock for being idiotic or oblivious or something.

"Yes, John," he groaned. It was nice to know that Sherlock could be predicable too. "What's that phrase about beggars and choosers? Unfortunately, I've stooped to the beggar position, seeing as there is literally no other way for me to get a case these days. So, if you will stop wasting time being surprised, you will instead go interview this professor," Sherlock instructed, still casually spread out on the couch, vacantly staring out at nothing.

"Of course. What are you going to do?"

"Call some contacts in the homeless network and see if they have any relevant information. Maybe later we'll go out to this man's flat and break in," Sherlock replied nonchalantly.

"Just like the old days," John continued with a small smile.

"Off you go, then," Sherlock said, shooing him with a quick wave of his hand.

"Now?"

"Yes, now. I don't see the point in waiting and I doubt the professor's office hours end before five," Sherlock asserted, highlighting his insistence by finally making eye contact. His gaze was piercing as always, the ice of his eyes seeming to run a chill down John's spine.

"Fine," John agreed and with that he stood up, grabbed his cane and his jacket and left the flat in search of a cab, though not before stealing one last glance at Sherlock and feeling the little tug that made him wary to leave Sherlock behind, worried that he might return once more to an empty flat.

John tried to shake this feeling during his ride over, but it seemed determined to sit heavily right on his chest. He clenched his hands tightly and roughly rubbed his closed fists on his legs, feeling the pounding of his heart in the throb of his fingers.

He felt truly pathetic. Separation anxiety, really? Was he five? He should be beyond this. He was an adult, a veteran. He knew how to deal with high-stress situations and even had life and death in his very hands numerous times. He had seen people die before, mourned their loss, and moved on. He had thought he would never sleep again, but learned to sleep. Now, he was so humiliatingly stuck. He shouldn't be so devoted to one man.

But, it was his own fault really, for long ago, when John felt himself coasting through his days, he had decided to devote his time to helping Sherlock, to joining Sherlock on this great ride of a life he has, to helping Sherlock to the best of his ability, to assisting Sherlock in achieving the best in the world in whatever way he could, for there was so much good that Sherlock could do. Yes, John had done this to himself, placed himself in Sherlock's shadow and condemned himself to the constant desire to see Sherlock succeed.

It had all been far too easy, really. John knew himself well enough to know that he was in constant need of direction. The army had provided him with that and he had _loved_ _it_. He floundered without a purpose, which is why he let Sherlock take him in so effortlessly and without a bit of resistance. He was sent home from what he thought was the greatest rush of his life, a time when he had almost no opportunity to linger or feel directionless. And so, being sent home felt a bit like a death sentence. He returned without a thing to do, no army duties and an intermittent tremor that brought his surgery career into question. It had been far too easy to let himself follow Sherlock and then much easier still to fall into his chasmic depression once he was returned to this life of no direction, not to forget to mention the added desolation of losing his best friend and greatest companion.

When Sherlock died, it was much more than a life ending; it was the end to so many possibilities. They were taken away in an instant and given back just as quickly, so who's to say that it couldn't be reversed once more without a second's notice.

He knew he was supposed to talk about _it_ and Sherlock was supposed to make him, but Sherlock was Sherlock and he was glad for it. Talking about it only seemed to remind him more of it. Every time someone asked him how he was, it felt not like consideration for his wellbeing but an unwelcome insistence that he dwell on his mistakes and his misery. He did not want to be asked how he was. He did not want to think about how he was. He wanted to solve crimes with Sherlock and be around his all-consuming energy and not have to explain in painful detail what he was thinking and what he still thought. Where others might see Sherlock's silence as uncaring, John was only grateful for it. He didn't want to discuss what he did and what he still does. He thought about it enough without the prompting of others.

"We're here, sir," the cabbie announced, suddenly breaking him out of his introspection.

"Oh, thanks," John mumbled awkwardly as he quickly paid the cabbie.

Finding his way to an information desk and then the building pointed-out to him, John reminded himself to focus on the task at hand. This was the time to jump back into work full-force. This is what he devoted his life to and now was not the time to falter. With this verdict in mind, he knocked confidently at the office door that clearly read "Professor Etherege".

"Come in," a voice called from inside.

"Hello, professor," John began as he opened the door. His voice and tone were exactly as they should be: steady, serious, and professional. This was the John Watson he knew himself to be. It felt good to be back doing work, to have that direction again.

He stretched his hand out for a handshake, but only found a very confused professor staring back at him. She wasn't slack-jawed or any of that nonsense, but she sat looking at him blankly through her lopsided thick-rimmed glasses, clearly trying to figure out where she was supposed to know him from.

"I'm Dr. John Watson," he clarified. "You posted on my blog."

"Oh, yes," she said, quickly bringing her hand to her forehead in embarrassment. "Yes, sorry. I'm terrible with faces. When a, uh, Sergeant Lestrade, I believe, told me to contact you, I was really hoping to hear from you."

"Ah, Sergeant Lestrade," he repeated, he had been wondering where this sudden inquiry had come from. It seems that Lestrade was just as eager for them to start up working again as they were and found a good roundabout way to make it happen. If you can't enlist a supposedly dead consulting detective, then get the concerned parties to. "Good chap, that Lestrade."

"He said that maybe you could help find Lenny and I'm really hoping that's true. The police seem to think that there is nothing to be done; well, the police with the exception of Sergeant Lestrade, of course. Seems they think that he's just run away, but Lenny has nothing to run from and, even if he did, he's not that type. He's just not," she insisted, clearly distressed. She kept fidgeting with her necklace, pulling the pendant back and forth on the chain, and would yank a bit at her shirt collar.

"Sorry, but what is his full name?" John asked politely.

"Len Bannister. He's a junior here and wonderfully bright. Lives in the same building as most other upper-class students. I'll give you the address if you want."

"If you will," John encouraged, handing over his notebook.

"He's very good, you know," she began as she quickly scrawled. "He is needed here, not just in this university but in this world. He always knows how to talk to the students and if only he could talk to everyone, what a world that might be. He explains things so well. He's an absolute whiz with queer theory. Do you know queer theory, Dr. Watson?"

"I'm sorry?" John coughed uncomfortably. As far as he knew, "queer" was offensive, was it not?

"I teach a class in human sexuality, fascinating stuff, and queer theory plays a beautiful part. Most people unfortunately do not know much about queer theory at all, so I'm not surprised that you are not familiar with it. Lenny is though. He's so good at explaining it. I won't do it the same justice and I'm the professor, so that ought to tell you something. I suppose maybe it is in part from living it more than I have," she explains rapidly, looking in John's direction, but not really looking at him. It reminds him a bit of Sherlock, though the reason for this relative absence is sentimental where Sherlock's is the sign of his gleeful dive into the depths of his sublimely clever mind.

"I'm not sure I follow," John confessed.

"Queer theory is an adventure in fluidity, that no identity is actually holistic, a breakdown of society's categorical systems. The binary or trinity systems are fallacies essentially and overly constrictive. What being queer means is different for many people. It can be an umbrella statement for the non-heteronormative community, an alternative to our traditional gender identities, a rejection of the gay, lesbian, bisexual, straight system, and many other things. It's a great way to break the rules, rules that define and confine what is 'okay'. This way there is no need to find a category, but to embrace yourself as part of the fluidity of existence."

She paused and John waited. He was at a complete loss for words. Her words were swimming in his mind, clinking together in certain ways for flashes of understanding and then dissipating painfully quickly. This also reminded him a bit of his time with Sherlock, when he realized how little he truly understood about life, how expansive the knowledge of the world can be and how little of it he has observed. This is one of those times when John realizes the utter beauty in just knowing and understanding things, something he will never fully have but can admire greatly in Sherlock.

"I don't suppose you know about the Kinsey scale either, but this is another way to look at it in a more concrete, numerical sense. It's a scale from zero to six with zero as exclusively heterosexual and six as exclusively homosexual and the numbers in between are sexual identities that fall between the two extremes. One is 'predominantly heterosexual, only incidentally homosexual' for instance. Lenny could go on about it for days and it was beautiful. Pansexual, asexual, gender-blind, he knew it all and could weave the conversation so well. This is only part of why we need him back, why you need to find him," she pleads.

"I will do my best," John choked out. "I promise."

"Thank you," she breathed. "You won't be sorry. I am sure of it."

"Honestly, I'm already glad and I've just begun," John admits.

John could feel his world growing larger and clearer. He did not pretend to understand everything that the professor had said, but it seems to be settling in his mind a bit more now. Though, this was honestly still all a little too philosophical and theoretical for John, who usually did not linger very long on these types of exceedingly expansive concepts. After all, a rejection of norms is not something that John ever expected to want for himself, let alone _love_, for he knew he was a pretty normal and ordinary guy and used to be quite fine with that. Normal was normal and easy, but normal had become a burden and now maybe this burden could be erased.

And so, with all of this spinning madly in his head, he sat there and he realized that this professor had just unknowingly dropped something in John's lap that might just change everything.


	10. Chapter 10

**Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, favorited, or followed!**

* * *

John stayed for another hour or so after that, collecting some important case-related information but mostly just listening to the professor talk. She spoke seemingly endlessly of Len, the deep questions he addressed, how he seemed to know the core of these deep questions, and how he knew how to look at someone and see the best way to explain things that might rock their idea of the world.

The more she talked, the more distraught she seemed to become, only taking reassurance in explaining these concepts, the reassurance in knowing things. John knew that well, having seen it in Sherlock many times though not so emotively. She would start to talk about Len, fidgeting with her necklace or the collar of her shirt, until her eyes went blank and she returned to reciting the facts of her specialty.

In all this time, John just listened; taking in all he could get, glad for the training in processing streams of information he'd had from his time with Sherlock. So, he sat silently and processed. He didn't have to ask any questions, seeing as the professor was more than willing to tell every detail she knew of this man's life.

John was a bit ashamed to admit that he enjoyed Professor Etherege's little lectures more than the information gathering. He was supposed to be entirely concerned with finding Len Bannister, but he couldn't help his craving for more insight, more understanding. He wanted to know it all; there were so many things he'd been living misunderstanding, so many things that changed so many _other_ things.

But, even in this relative disinterest, he now knew where to find the flat, how Len Bannister spent his free time, who the victim hung out with, and how close he was to his family. Really, he found out more from this interview than he usually got to when he did ask questions, stuff that he usually found out from Sherlock's deductions or just didn't ever know at all. All of these things the professor knew and shared so readily.

When Professor Etherege seemed to have exhausted herself emotionally from all of this talk and reminiscing, she stood, attempting to straighten glasses that were stubbornly crooked and shuffling papers aimlessly. John took the hint.

"Well, thank you, Professor, for meeting with me. I'm sure this will all prove to be very helpful," John said, calmly closing his notebook.

"Please, Michelle," she corrected.

"Thank you, Michelle. I'll be in touch if I need more information," he replied, a little of the affection he felt for the professor creeping into his practiced formality.

"Anything you need. Please, don't hesitate to call," she encouraged as she handed him a business card with shaky hands.

John pocketed her card and shook her hand, before quickly exiting the room. Once in the hall, he whipped out his phone and quickly texted Sherlock the flat's address, to which he almost instantly got a reply to meet Sherlock there.

It being close to campus, John chose to walk, returning to his notes and thumbing through the many pages riddled with not just case notes, but notes on the more academic side of the conversation. He read them over and over again, the words sinking in better each time he returned to them. He knew he should really stop being surprised by the remarkable, boundless quantity of information that he didn't even know existed, but learning all this now made him feel even more ignorant. Usually, what Sherlock told him was astounding in its perception, attention to detail, and sheer amount, but here was a whole new world that John just now realized he never knew about and he wondered what all would have been different if he had known it sooner, where past conversations and impulses might have gone.

Of course, Sherlock got to the address first and was already rushing around inside the first-floor flat by the time John arrived. Finding Sherlock by following the sounds of his movements and murmurings around to the side of the building, he also found himself once again locked out as he could tell that Sherlock had climbed in through a window that John couldn't reach.

John paused to watch for a moment as all the action took place inside. He watched as Sherlock twisted and turned and disappeared in a crouch and reappeared in a stretch to examine every bit of the flat. He was hindered only slightly by his stark change in attire: the leather jacket that was too tight across his shoulders with a hoodie underneath, the jeans that were baggier than usual and a little too big so they got in the way of usually smooth movements. This must be his idea of a disguise, attempt at looking like an ordinary university student. John wondered who he was modeling his outfit after, for John couldn't imagine Sherlock ever dressed this ordinarily.

He reveled in the ability to watch Sherlock, for once without his knowledge, remembering the episodes of this scenario and thinking on the future that may lay in the professor's words. With these thoughts and thoughts of separation that he emphatically attempted to suppress, just watching was no longer enough and he reached to knock on the window.

"Let me in this time, yeah?" John joked.

Sherlock whipped around in a circular blur of fabric with the familiar look of excitement and fascination spread across his features. Surprisingly, he rushed to the door, unlocked it with a quick click, and pulled it open. John hobbled over to the door, looking up at Sherlock, who was almost positively beaming.

"Not so bored?" John asked.

"This case is actually proving to be quite nice," Sherlock replied coolly over his shoulder as he returned to the room he had just been investigating.

It was a pretty ordinary flat for a university student, though the living room was incredibly messy, beyond even the messiness of their own flat, with papers scattered around the room and mud tracked into the carpet, mud that Sherlock was carefully placing into a petri dish with tweezers. John followed the distinct path of the mud from the window to a desk, then on the seat of a chair, and finally towards another room, the bedroom, which was much cleaner if not for the mud. John recalled the professor saying that Len was organized enough and this room showed the modest amount of consideration put into where things ought to go, though a mess of mud and a bit of blood wrecked this.

"Figured it out yet, John?" Sherlock said from just over his shoulder, his deep baritone breaking the silence and reverberating in its wake.

John was a man used to keeping his guard up and his wits about him, but Sherlock's sudden appearance, his closeness, the intrusion of his voice, managed to catch John by surprise. Though he didn't much show it, he felt the jolt on the inside, the familiar jumpstart in his system, the narrowing of his mind on the essentials. John's instinctual fight was kicking in. He felt the looming presence of his taller companion, the way he was blocking off the door with his height, the steadiness of the breath that barely brushed against John's hair. As if preparing for an attack, John felt everything. John knew there would be no attack, but this was simply the way he was designed, sudden stimuli was met with an evaluation of the threat and the means of breaking it. Though, with this stimulus, knowing that no attack would come, he felt the found qualities in an entirely different way. That brush of breath was not only the indication of proximity, but raised goose bumps in its path, a simple rush of air but from a significant source.

"Probably not as much as you have. Go ahead, share," John encouraged, a bit strained but ultimately joking, not turning around to look at him but remaining just as he was, with the breaths continuing to sweep softly.

"The criminal we are looking for is at least six foot, an athlete, of low intelligence, enrolled in the university, in one of the classes the victim assisted in, and likely not the victim's girlfriend or a close friend but he might think he is," Sherlock listed off quickly and effortlessly.

"It would probably disappoint you if I didn't ask how you knew."

"The window was the clear point of entry. As you can clearly tell, it requires a certain stature to reach and get through that window. Mine seemed to just fit the requirement. Now, once inside you no doubt noticed the mud, though you may not have noticed that some of it is very slightly drier. The two different muds suggest a repeat visit in a close interval. The older mud is in more acceptable places, the chair and just beside the door, where the criminal took off his boots and some other item of clothing, most likely, according to the size and spatter, his gloves. The shoes and gloves were both muddy because of some kind of sport, because, while muddy shoes are typical, the gloves are not so and the shoe prints are of an athletic design.

"Because the criminal removed his shoes, this was the friendlier visit, one done in hopes that whatever favor asked might be given on friendship alone. While, in the wake of this failure, the second set of mud shows the intrusion, when the criminal clearly did not realize the victim would be returning home and did not think to take off his shoes, a telling piece of his identity. The failure and the lack of knowledge of the victim's whereabouts rules out close friendships and his relationship for I gather that sentiment often plays into those types of situations and the favor, concealing plagiarism, would be more likely to occur.

"The plagiarism is clear from the papers strewn on the floor, papers all from Professor Etherege's classes and written by various students. I doubt that this teaching assistant would treat these papers so and therefore the intruder must have been quickly ruffling through them, casting them about the room throughout his process, from the desk, to the window, and finally to the bedroom room when the intruder realized the return of our victim and he attempted to hide. Most likely the took nearly half of the papers with him as he left."

Sherlock explained all of this while moving around the main room and John finally faced him as he looked at every piece of evidence while Sherlock pointed out its significance.

"Amazing," John said as reverently as ever. "Do you know where Len Bannister is?"

"No, that's where the fun comes in." Sherlock paused as John gave a little huff of predictable distaste. "There was clearly a struggle, but not enough to have resulted in murder, at least not here. There is no wallet, phone, or keys here, which also continues this theory unless the victim did not take them out of his pockets upon returning home, which is the typical response, or the assailant remembered to take them with him and I've already established his special level of idiocy. So, the victim came home to an unwelcome intruder and fought him off until the intruder fled. Wherein, the victim seems to have picked up all of his necessities for leaving the flat and followed after him. I suspect though, that he did not make it far. Now, the question is how far did he make it and why has the body not been found."

"So, where do we get the answers?"

"I'll study the surroundings," Sherlock announced with one last scan of the room, picking up the papers on the floor and folding them before shoving them in his pockets.

"Homeless network?" John offered.

"I'd rather do it myself."

"Can you risk it?" John asked, disbelieving and a little nervous.

"People tend to not see what they don't expect to and here no one will likely be looking anyway, not like on Baker Street or at Bart's. Though, just in case, we'll wait until it's darker. Until then, dinner," Sherlock stated, his tone giving no room for an argument.

With this, he grabbed John by his good shoulder and ushered him to the front door, opening the door and swiftly pulling the hood over his head before stepping out and motioning quickly to a black car a little way down the street.

After getting the driver to go pick them up some carry-out while they waited in the car, they sat, Sherlock surprisingly eating, matching John's forkfuls with his own, and chatted, sometimes about the case but most of the time not.

Sherlock asked very few questions about what John learned, seeming to get enough from the flat to not need anything more. John was fine with this, because, even if Sherlock had asked, John would probably keep most of his conversation with the professor to himself, at least for now. He wanted to think things over before he mentioned it to anyone. He needed to figure out where it all fit in before he let anyone know he'd had it in mind. He wouldn't mention knowing the term queer until he knew he for sure he was taking it on.

Though, that didn't seem far off.

Sitting there, cracking jokes, looking at Sherlock smile like he actually meant it, not the way he did when he wanted something like a stranger's trust or a body part from the morgue, but like he was actually enjoying himself; with that laugh that didn't happen enough, reverberating in the car usually drenched in dread. So much time spent with Sherlock being a terror when bored, or in his own head when on a case, these times of relaxation and lightheartedness were so few. This one came at just the right time.

Looking at Sherlock and his attempt at looking ordinary, John thought just maybe it wasn't so weird for him to not have loved a man before. Maybe this was just how life went, thinking he knows who he is or what will happen, until one day he's shot and that day the life he'd planned falls away and until one day he meets someone worth following and in that day he also meets someone he grows to love. Until that someone turned over all the criteria and made the only criteria the kind of stuff that actually mattered. Until a day when finding a pair of lips or hands, or a set of fingers, or a head of hair beautiful wasn't hindered by confusion about the person who possessed them. Maybe, it wasn't so weird for him to not have loved a man before, because there was literally no one in the world similar to Sherlock.

John hadn't thought of himself as someone who lingered over romance like this, but he had to now. He had avoided these thoughts for a while, trying to convince himself that they didn't exist or didn't matter, but if he didn't consider them now, then maybe something would never happen.

And so, with the serenity of this car closed around them and only the quiet whirring of the engine breaking the quiet on their trip back to the victim's flat, John could feel that he and Sherlock were trading glances at each other, one looking just after the other looked away, and that Sherlock's hand seemed very close while also just far enough away as it rested between them on the seat. John, without even thinking, played with the new trickle of a revelation and slipped two of his fingers just in between Sherlock's in the slightest of touches as they both looked out the windows.

Sherlock stiffened beside him and John could feel Sherlock staring at him, but neither moved. Slowly, Sherlock shifted his eyes back to the outside world flashing by and they remained this way for a few moments.


	11. Chapter 11

Strangely, the touch was _nice_. Usually, Sherlock only liked touching when he initiated it or tolerated it when he could see it coming. He would hug Mrs. Hudson when he wanted to and he would tolerate a slap on the back from Angelo because he knew it would happen, but this was different. He had neither initiated this nor saw it coming and it was still _nice_ and nicer than anything so plain should be.

It was only a crossing of fingers. It should not make him feel much of anything, but it made him feel a surprisingly large spectrum of things. Though really he should stop being surprised; nothing with John ever went as expected. John was more than a person, more than Sherlock ever thought anyone would be.

John was what was created by the opposite of everything Sherlock knew and the opposite of those opposites.

John was more than a person, but not in the way that Mycroft was with his government influence or Moriarty with his own, although somewhat different in nature, set of connections, which is to say that it was _certainly_ not because John was above it all and pulled the strings. John let himself be pulled, but not the way some people let life make choices for them so they never had to take responsibility for the mess. No, John knew what he was doing. John was what was made in the absence of control and the absence of passivity. John was what was created in a vacancy.

John was beyond a person, beyond the ranks of people-who-were-not-people. Sherlock knew that all people were actually people, obviously. Even so, while the forms that milled about outside his window looked like people and sounded like people, they still seemed to be shells with vacant insides while inside him were heavy organs and ricocheting thoughts. He looked like one of these people and his voice sounded like one of these people, but when Sherlock tried to make contact, the facades of these people would topple over like Matryoshka dolls with their thoughts dispersing like mist from their empty insides as if they were never really there, an illusion of a connection that would never come to pass. He would wade through these dolls set up like people and find them all to be lacking.

Sometimes what Sherlock found in the dolls' places would not fade quite so quickly, the mirage of humanity being a little more solid but a mirage nonetheless. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and surprisingly emotionally insightful and thus useful Molly, even with their gaseous insides, were an intriguing and beneficial in between group. They looked like people and sounded like people and when Sherlock reached out, he came back with a little substance in his hands, which was an improvement, but still not enough. Their mirages seemed to be standing the test of time, though Sherlock was never sure how long that would last. They were too much like the people outside the window, something beyond the barrier of what he could really and fully understand and have. He valued them, sure, but their smoky insides would always seem liable to drift away.

Alternatively, Moriarty had been refreshingly solid on the inside and Sherlock admitted that he missed having another person who was actually a person, someone who did not disappear as soon as Sherlock got close. Though the enjoyment was tainted and short-lived. Moriarty had to be eliminated in the name of preservation, so eventually his insides did burn to dust. This was a similar case to that of The Woman, who was another example of a genuine solid person and another example of a genuine solid person disappearing. Sherlock had saved her life, another solid person could not be lost, could not be wasted, but still she receded back into oblivion. These two people who found him and were like him like fellows in a species teased him with the feeling of companionship only to disappear.

There was only one solid person who had stayed and continued to stay and might always stay.

Sherlock thought John would be the same as the non-people and at first he was. He sat with Lestrade in their flat and they were both vacant without even a hint of something solid, while Sherlock's tightly bottled-up thoughts pinged and pounded in his insides. In that moment, to Sherlock, John had toppled over just the same as the others and while a smile slide to Sherlock's face with his pride for being so miraculously clever, a disappointment struck him once more with the knowledge that his miraculousness would always single him out far beyond the others. He would always be several steps ahead and even when the others caught up, he would still be the only one with these heavy insides.

But, he had underestimated good old Doctor Watson. He had been right that John would always be several steps behind him, but wrong about how many comprised "several" and he was wrong about who John Watson might be and what he might be willing to do when he caught up. He never thought that good old Doctor Watson would shoot a man and especially never thought that this Doctor Watson would be so gracefully and solidly collected not an hour later. John may blend in better with the dolls and he may have a little bit of smoke and he may not be quite so miraculous as Sherlock, but John was miraculous in his own way.

John caught on to things, to Sherlock, in ways that the non-people did not and stayed in ways that the other solid people did not seem to. John was created in vacancy, in the absence of things, in the paradoxes, and his insides were filled with something, though Sherlock was still trying to figure out what that something was and, as he investigated the consistency of John's insides, Sherlock's bottled-up thoughts were leaking out.

In fact, just as he could sense a significant trickle now, the panic was only mercifully tamed as it came with a little hint at John's insides: something warm.

Sitting beside John with their fingers still interlaced, with his thoughts leaking out, and with this little serenity of a hint, Sherlock knew better than to say anything that might ruin it. In this silence, they pulled up to the victim's flat once more and once the car pulled to the curb and stopped, it was time for work again and Sherlock slide out of one side of the car with John shuffling out the other.

Sherlock had to admit that his being in public was probably a bad idea. After all, the whole reason why he postponed going abroad was to wait out the media coverage and let his face fade from public memory. With his face on newsstands and telly, people were more likely to recognize him if he were to try to mingle. It was best to wait until visual memory declined in his favor. Admittedly, this plan was cast aside, but in its wake it seemed apt to form a new plan and this new plan banked on the time already passed. Of course, he was right about people not seeing what they did not expect to; it happens all the time. He had said it over and over but it seemed to change nothing; they still see but they do not observe. Time was just insurance, necessary insurance, but when that insurance seemed to cost him what he was trying to protect, it was obsolete. Anyway, after six months, he was just a typo on a page and everyone was too busy scanning and misguidedly believing in their brilliance to see the letters still out of place.

Even if someone were to shock Sherlock and begin to observe, he would still be weaving through the alleyways and checking skips with John Watson because frankly he could not force himself to feel like it was a particularly great risk. Nothing felt like much of a risk anymore, not since he returned. _That_ was a risk, a _monumental risk,_ and he had done it in a second and there was no undoing it. So, now, everything else felt so small. He would take precautions like donning a costume and using Mycroft's car because he did still worry about John and his safety, but nothing could stop him now from doing what he could to get back to normal. He had given Mycroft the information he needed and now there was nothing else for Sherlock to do with that regard. However, with John there was still much to do and so he would do it. He was miraculous. He could do it.

Sherlock raced around the dark and dirty back alleys with tiny magnifying glass in hand and with John Watson at varying distances behind him. So far, Sherlock had not motivated John to abandon his cane; though, he had not really begun trying yet. Maybe this was because he was still wondering what caused the break in using the cane between his funeral and when Sherlock saw John and Mrs. Hudson visiting his grave, and then what brought the cane back. To his great annoyance, he had not figured out these elusive variables yet. But, once he deduced these details, he was sure he would then have an easier time replicating whatever it was that got rid of the cane in his absence and making it stick this time. This seemed like the only option; it was unlikely John would fall for the same trick he did the first time.

So, this was how it was going to be for now and Sherlock could handle that. Especially when the case was leading to a wonderfully puzzling dead end; though, John probably will not like that this will likely actually end with someone being dead. Anyhow, it was interesting for now and that was what counted. Plus, he needed to find the empty shell of the non-person before thinking about how disappointed in him John would be for not seeing the victim as full of something thicker than mist.

Alley after alley, Sherlock looked at every skip with as much scrutiny as was possible with only moonlight and dull streetlamps, while John huffed beside him and occasionally quipped. Sherlock said little or nothing to these little comments, but at least hummed or grunted so that John knew that he was at least still somewhat paying attention. Though, after a while John was getting less clever and more clearly exhausted.

Somewhat luckily for John, Sherlock found a splash of dried blood with an angle that matched what might be created by a rough throw of a bludgeoned body into a metal skip. Though, this was not the best part of this skip for Sherlock. The best part was the splash of blood that indicated the body being jerked back out. Someone had put it in for a bit of storage and then pulled it back out again.

"Oh! John! This is _brilliant_!" Sherlock exclaimed.

John gave him his look; the look that says that he is still confused, but also knows that he will likely disapprove of the explanation to follow.

"No surprise, but we are going to need to do some further investigating to find the victim-"

"Len Bannister," John interrupts.

"Sure, Len Bannister," Sherlock concedes. "He is not here, not that I thought he would be, but I had to know why no one had discovered him. One usually hopes that people are not so stupid as to miss a body in a skip." This received a sigh that lacked the seriousness it usually earned because a bit of a smile tugged at its end; though, this was quickly covered up when sentiment was taken over once more by the seriousness of the issue. "Anyway, the only way to find him has always been through his attacker, but I wanted a little information going into the interrogation so I could easily get the confession without the negotiation nonsense and, with what I've found, we can certainly get the most out of a nice chat. Of course, we will have to see if his attacker was stupid enough to stay in his apartment or even go back to class. Likely, he did both. This seems to be an exceptionally stupid man as far as I can tell and that's saying something. So, I'll look at the mud and you should call the professor and get a class roster. Oh, also, you probably should not mention that he is likely dead."

"Sherlock," John chided far more sadly than Sherlock thought was immediately warranted, prompting Sherlock to look up from his crouch where he was snapping pictures of the blood with his phone. John refused to make eye-contact, staring determinedly at his shoes.

"John?"

John shook his head and took a deep breath before looking back up, with the little traces of melancholy resting in John's eyes betraying the sentiments he was trying to pretend did not exist.

"Shall we go, then?" John asked with a strained voice.

"Yes, let's."

They walked back to the car in silence, John's head bowed, looking once more at his shoes as they stepped across the cracked asphalt and with his available hand shoved and fidgeting in his coat jacket.

Sherlock could not help but steal glances at him; his own hands hanging down by his side, uncomfortably in limbo between wanting to have something to do and having nothing. The elation of discovery was wearing off pathetically quickly; like any drug, it wore off faster and faster each time he got a hit. Even a seeming dead end and a criminal who came back to fetch his victim were not enough to quiet the buzz in his head; especially, it seemed, when the thoughts that swarmed were those of sentiment, current and past, new and long repressed. He thought of those useless hands and finally decided what to do with them.

In one quick motion, he slipped his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out a cigarette and a lighter, not faltering even slightly in his step to bring the former to his lips or to use the latter to light it. John, in his distracted state, barely had time to register the movements before Sherlock took a gratifyingly deep breath. This was the kind of smoke-filled Sherlock could be and he had to admit that it was rather nice.

"Care to share?" John asserted, after Sherlock had a few long drags and blew them each out in one smooth stream perfected by years of practice.

Sherlock looked at John with a slight turn of his head, eyebrows arching inquisitively and cigarette poised in his hand.

"I've smoked before; don't be so surprised," John said shortly, stopping on the sidewalk just feet from the idling car and standing solidly, determinedly.

Wordlessly, Sherlock twisted his wrist, to which John roughly yanked the cigarette out of his hand and stuck it between his lips. John breathed in heavily, his eyes closed and forehead wrinkled in consternation, before simply opening his mouth and letting the smoke drift out. He slumped his shoulders slightly and relaxed his brow as the smoke wafted around his face, waiting until it all disappeared before returning the cigarette to his lips again.

With John's second round, Sherlock realized that he thoroughly did not like John being more smoke-filled than normal, especially when he was just getting to know John's solid insides. So, with that thought and only that thought, he tipped down, placed his lips over John's and drew all of the smoke out in one deep breath before pulling back to blow it out, but not in a smooth stream like the others, but quickly and recklessly. It did not deserve the elegance of order. It ought to be spit out.

"Well, then," John mumbled, punctuated by the telling pair of short coughs he usually unknowingly did in uncomfortable situations.

Rather surprisingly, John did not seem to want to talk beyond that and simply dropped the cigarette to the ground and put it out beneath his shoe. There was some tension in how John turned towards the car, but nonetheless he steadily reached with his left hand to open the car door and clamber inside.

Besides being surprising, it was also rather perfect that John did not ask Sherlock to explain himself; that he allowed both of them to revel in the relative serenity of silence, because Sherlock would have nothing to say. He could not explain the smoke and dolls to John and he could not explain to himself exactly why, seemingly suddenly, actions, such as sucking the air out of John's mouth with his own, did not seem so inconceivable and, in fact, seemed quite instinctive. All he knew was that the mirages of smoke, determined trickles of sentiment, and hints of just what John was made up of, all had intertwined to set things in motion, unprecedented things, and there seemed nothing to stop them.

As Sherlock and John stared at each other throughout the drive back to Baker Street, Sherlock could see the thoughts as they roamed across John's features: the tiniest hint of lingering sadness in his eyes, confusion in the slight squint, and the acceptance in the slackening of John's lips, though interrupted slightly by the rough shakiness of forced deep breaths. He saw all of these things without John having to say a single word. He wished he could say that his face conveyed nothing, but Molly proved that no matter how hard he tried to hide it, his emotions betrayed him and showed through. He wondered what John could see on him.


	12. Chapter 12

**Firstly, sorry for not updating sooner! I've been writing this chapter in bits and pieces for a while (pretty much from the beginning in fact) and then I was planning an WWII Germany AU in which Sherlock is an English spy and John is German and part of the July 21****st**** assassination attempt. ****(Yes, I've done a ton of research about gay WWII Germans and secret relationships and all that.)**** So, I was thinking about posting that, too. **

**Secondly, now, I know some of you do not care about the sexuality stuff, but what I have planned might not make much sense without it. **

Even more so than touching, Sherlock did not like kissing. It did not matter if he saw it coming and he did not ever initiate it. Or, more accurately, he supposed, he had never initiated it before last night.

He also must revise his initial absolute: he had never liked kissing until now, despite the rather unorthodox situation and motivation behind the kiss and the fact that he was not sure that it could be called a kiss by conventional standards. It had the parts in a strictly analytical sense, but Sherlock got the impression that there were some intangible criteria that were supposed to be met. There was supposed to be a level of sentiment. Though, if Sherlock were being totally honest in his assessment of the event, he would begrudgingly admit that there _was_ sentiment. He could not name the sentiment. It was too unfamiliar. He knew it had been growing for a while, but he still could not place it. He did not have the knowledge needed to contextualize and process.

Sure, in his misguided youth he had, had extremely brief and very fleeting crushes on some of the boys in his class who ignored him rather than ridiculed him and therefore showed at least _some_ intelligence. However, all that nonsense came to an abrupt stop.

Logic proved sentiment in any form to be more pain and complication than it was worth and he was more than happy to embrace logic. He was even more pleased to boast many years later that he had still not suffered from the sentimental defect. He had felt gladly exempt.

Until John.

He sat in silence, thought, and waited, though for what he did not know. He saw John shift uncomfortably in the silence. He watched John stumble around the flat at night and again in the morning. He heard John pound up the stairs and then pound back down them. Out of the corner of his eye, he could not help but notice the many times when John would glance in his direction or open his mouth to say something, but would then scrunch his eyebrows and turn away. For once, Sherlock kept his words to himself, because he was for once uncertain of them, uncertain what exactly to say or do. For once he did not trust what might come out should he open his mouth, not when he had problematic little thoughts about what it would be like to lick John's finger before he turned a page in his book. He could not be certain when, for the first time in his life, he had certain urges that ordinarily would have appalled him.

This just would not do. This had to end. He needed to be certain again. He usually knew himself so well. He could follow his impulses, because he knew them to be logical and rational and true because of evidence and proof. He usually did not _feel_ things. Though, last night he was forced to realize that was not true and had not been for a long while. There was no going back to the security of years ago. There was no going back and he did not have the knowledge necessary to assuredly move forward. One of the things he hated most was indecision and here he was practicing it. He was not certain anymore and he was stuck. So, he sat in silence and watched John.

Only when John announced that he was leaving to see Professor Etherege did Sherlock rouse from his stupor and only to be hit by more emotions he could not place.

Something had to be done about this.

John wished he could say that leaving the apartment allowed him to leave behind the uneasiness that seemed to mercilessly permeate the air; however, this wasn't the case.

At first the maybe-kiss shocked him into silence. His mind went blank. He had no idea what to say or do. This was _Sherlock_, for Christ's sake. Any knowledge he had of how to react to kissing was faulty. This was a kiss like no other with a person like no other. Sherlock was like no one else and could be treated like no one else. He in no way regretted the action. He was accepting and embracing the idea of queer and all things that came with it more and more. It made sense to him, the fluidity and all that. There had to be some wiggle room in these sorts of things; he only wished he'd realized that earlier. It was so clear now that it was presented to him. He was still a little fuzzy on the finer theoretical details, but he was relieved to not have to feel so odd for not fitting the molds he grew up with. He didn't have to be the sure heterosexual his dad described or the sure homosexual detailed by his sister.

So, no, he did not regret the maybe-kiss. He just regretted doing nothing when they got home; he should have responded in some way, but he still had no idea what to say and Sherlock did not seem to want to talk.

He could relate. There were so many things they weren't talking about. Really, at this point, why not add another?

So, John went to bed in silence and woke up in a sweat, choking down his shout; an action he was unfortunately familiar with, but never got easier. He ate breakfast in silence and read a book, trying not to show just how often he looked up to see what Sherlock was doing, wishing he could see what was going on in that incredible brain of his, but, no luck. Everything felt confusing and muddled. He was used to feeling a bit confused by what Sherlock said and did, but John didn't want to be confused anymore. Not now. He wanted things to make sense, but it seemed useless.

This was the kind of thinking that did him in.

He knew it. This hopelessness was the problem and it wouldn't just go away when Sherlock returned. He was smart enough to know that at least. Sherlock couldn't completely fix him when it was solely the PTSD, how could he fix it all when there was even more to contend with.

Sherlock had never been very good at thinking far into the future in a concrete fashion. He was present-minded. He worked case-to-case and survived in between. John figured Sherlock could have gone on for years working cases and never expecting anything to change. Now, everything was different. Even the plan Sherlock has constructed, which John was largely happily ignorant of because Sherlock explaining would mean Sherlock rehashing and John reliving and that would do more damage than good, was in pieces.

For once John had Sherlock on back foot. He wished he could savor that; this was likely the only time it would happen. Sherlock usually could think circles around him, but Sherlock was out of his league and pretending not to be. Even Sherlock couldn't find the answer. Even Sherlock just indulged John's suggestion of normalcy, because he didn't know what else to do. John could see that even if Sherlock had some rational justification, Sherlock knew it was impractical to see Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, but did it anyway, because he was never good with inaction and that was the action John proposed.

He knew that Sherlock was trying and he did help just by being him and that seemed to be enough to get him through the day, but, at night, when he lay in bed trying to fall asleep and the only company he had were his thoughts, he would sink into a loneliness that made no sense. He knew he could go downstairs and Sherlock would be there, but that didn't seem to matter. The loneliness and sadness had settled in his bones. He felt adrift. When Sherlock was there, he felt real, but when they separated, he felt like a zombie and felt like Sherlock was a spirit floating through the flat and liable to float away through John's fingers. The logical tried to persuade the emotional and never succeeded. He would tell himself the rational facts: Sherlock was here and Sherlock had not indicated that he was leaving; but they never changed the panic rising in his chest and the loneliness. He wished he believed what he was trying to convince himself, but he didn't. The thoughts built up until he felt like he was breaking and he needed an outlet.

He tried talking to his therapist, but she didn't even make a dent into his problems. She just presented the things he already knew. She would tell him the rational thoughts he already considered and nothing more. His hour would be up and he would return home just the same as how he left, if not a little more defeated for it. Talking was futile. He only had one way to get his relief.

In addition to this ongoing question of less than optimal stasis, this thing he did or didn't have with Sherlock was maddening and taking its toll and maybe if he wasn't so far gone, he'd know how to fix it, but he had too few answers to too many questions. So, he trudged on to tell Professor Etherege some terrible news and try not to think about the parallels and implications too much. When he found himself outside her office and he could only take a deep breath to steel himself for what was to come.

But, he couldn't have steeled himself enough to deal with how upset she truly was. He had expected shock and sadness, but not the level of distress and tears that came. He kept as many details to himself as possible while communicating the situation and why he would need her class roster. While he used to be good at comforting, now it was just too much and he was too little. He was both relieved and unsettled when things seemed to be coming to some semblance of a close for the day.

"I guess there is nothing left to do but go home," she sighed.

"Well, uh, do you want to get a drink?" John said on impulse. He couldn't comfort, but they could at least both use the simple companionship and John certainly couldn't return to the flat to wallow some more in silent tension.

"Dr. Watson, I don't think I would be appropriate to-" she began, a speech she seemed accustomed to giving.

"Oh. No, not like that. I just—I was just thinking that we're both upset and no one should drink alone," he explained quickly.

"Oh. Well, then…yes. I suppose."

"Good. Great."

John knows that there are many good things about having company who is smarter than he is, one of which of course being that he always learns something new. He also knows one of the nice things about having a companion who _knows_ he or she is smarter than he is: he can sit back and absorb the knowledge presented to him and not be expected to contribute. With the professor, he will listen and pay attention and not feel too pressured to know what all is happening, but he will be able to enjoy someone's intelligence without that someone being the source of his confusion. He will learn things about sexuality that he never thought he needed to know and he won't have to think and he will just listen to the words of another person instead of the words jumbled up inside his head. She would hopefully—and, if Sherlock was any indication, it was likely—feel good amazing him with her knowledge. She should hopefully enjoy sharing her interest and he would feel good not having to think about what did or did not wait for him when he got home.

This could be a great distraction and a great commiseration all in one for them both.

They walk to a nearby pub the professor seems fairly familiar with, the professor swinging her briefcase and staring off into the distance and John hobbling along on his cane and staring at his shoes. This silence doesn't break when they take their seats at the back tucked away in the corner or once they'd settled in with their drinks in hand and John started to feel just what he wanted to avoid: the thoughts creeping in and the panic that came with them. So, he tried so hard to start a conversation, but it was almost like he'd forgotten how to. He prodded, asking about the classes the professor taught, asked for elaboration on the Kinsey Scale—or whatever it was called John couldn't be sure—and any other question he could possibly think of. Unfortunately for both of them, the professor was too consumed by thoughts of her own to want to offer much information.

There went their salvation.

John could see it before it happened and cringed. He watched as she took a larger gulp of her second or third drink and knew what was coming.

"You know why I'm upset. Do I get to know why you are?" she prompts.

"It would be easier to say what _isn't_ making me upset," he groans in his all too familiar self-pity.

"Well, pick whichever one of those reasons I can do something about," she instructed simply.

"It's rather insignificant compared to yours." John kicked himself internally. Comments like that weren't going to help their situation. He was supposed to be supporting—or commiserating at least—not reminding her why she was upset. He needn't worry, though because she brushed it off. It seems when she was on a mission nothing would deter her.

"Humor me."

John wavered with an "I don't know" and a large gulp of his own drink. But she was relentless, keeping almost unblinking eager eye contact. This was what he wanted to avoid, but if he couldn't avoid it, maybe something good could come of it, if only to prompt other conversations.

"Fine. I'm—uh, I'm interested in a guy…for the first time." John instinctively felt like looking away, but he was interested in how she might react, what she might say. She was only briefly surprised, which was not exactly what he expected.

"Thank you for coming out to me. Thank you for trusting me with that. I didn't think— I didn't mean to pry like that, I swear, just a little. I thought we would talk about a kink or something. Maybe you discovered BDSM, but don't have the money to—" Her blasé and insistent attitude was suddenly gone as she visibly struggled to find the right words. "We don't have to talk about it anymore if you don't want to."

John contemplated that offer. It was a bit weird to talk about this with someone who didn't really know him, but also undeniably appealing considering she wouldn't then impact his daily life. He wouldn't get pitying looks every day and he could get advice from someone who might actually say something helpful. It was a nice opportunity.

"No it's…fine. It's nice actually. Well, we kissed, sort of, maybe as much as he kisses."

Admirably, just as quickly as she lost her footing, she gained it again. "What does that mean?"

He was suddenly struck with the unenviable task of trying to describe the anomaly that is Sherlock Holmes to someone who can never know whom he is talking about. He had described Sherlock to Harry, but she could look him up on the Internet to fill in the gaps and John had never tried to explain anything deeper than the surface anyway. This was totally different.

"He's never expressed interest in being physical. He doesn't put much weight into bodily drives: hunger, tiredness, all of it. It's like he wants to pretend he's not even human. He usually seems so indifferent to everything that isn't his mind and his puzzles and this was neither; so, I guess I just don't know what he could be thinking."

"He hasn't said anything?"

John had to hold himself back from laughing. It would have been a bit not good. But the idea that _Sherlock_ would willfully admit to not being the logical machine he tries to be was laughably unlikely.

"He isn't much for talking about emotions, especially not his. He doesn't like to admit he has them. I seem to be the closest friend he has and I even struggle to get him to open up with the seemingly smallest of things."

"You want my semi-professional and wholly abstract help?" she asks. John can hear the hope and excitement in her tone and can't help but smile a little.

"Please." It was nice to think he could just sit back and listen to someone else think about his problems. God knows he wasn't getting anywhere.

"Well, even though kissing doesn't necessarily mean anything sexual, you're wondering, right? I promise I ask not because I assume you have some preoccupation with sex, but because I know sex in a relationship is confusing and I don't want to talk about something entirely irrelevant." John must admit that for all that she and Sherlock have in common, she is significantly more careful. John guessed it was part personality and part profession.

"It's alright. You were right," he admits, feeling his ears and cheeks warm. Of course, John doesn't _need_ a sexual component, but it would be nice to have some sliver of an idea for once of what he might expect from Sherlock Holmes.

"I'm not sure about his general disconnect from his body, but I know a bit about having a disconnect with arousal. Some people identify as asexual, which sounds sort of like what it means. Asexual is a term that can mean different things to different people and can be a general term that other terms fall under. _Generally_ _speaking_, asexuals do not experience sexual arousal. For many asexuals, when someone tells them that they 'just haven't met the right person' it is frankly insulting. They don't feel sexual attraction and it is biological and it is patronizing to insist that they must be sexual because they are human. But, for one group that is sometimes placed under the asexual umbrella, this is exactly true. They need this sort of idea of the right person and the emotional attachment and understanding that comes with him or her. They need the emotional connection to feel attraction. Some demisexuals have said that they do not feel attraction for the external parts; it's the person that a demisexual finds arousing.

So, maybe this guy you're talking about is celibate, as in choosing not to have sex, or maybe he's asexual, or maybe he doesn't really know sexual attraction, because, if he has not had many close friends before you, he has not had much of an opportunity to have an emotional connection strong enough to feel sexual attraction. Maybe the emotional connections he has had were not people he then found sexually attractive, just nice people to be around. It's unfortunate for you that he isn't one to talk about this stuff, because talking about sexuality can be a delicate process. I guess you've just got to do the best you can to both get what you need and not violate his privacy."

She paused to lift her eyes bashfully from the glass she had been absently swirling and studying throughout her evaluation, as if she suddenly realized she'd said so much and stepped so far away from a casual chat in a pub. She drank the rest of her drink in one go and set her glass carefully back on the table.

"Sorry if that was too much. Sometimes I just get carried away. I've been told to tone it down, but I usually forget." She gave him a small, but genuine smile and he couldn't help but return it, though he might not have been entirely successful.

As much as her spiel went over his head, John appreciated the light in the professor's eyes. She liked to be useful. She liked to have direction. She liked that she could do something here when she could do very little in the investigation. John liked giving her that, even if he really couldn't take much credit.

"Don't be sorry. I'm used to it. He's like that too, gets caught up in what he knows and just can't help but lay it all out for people to see. It's remarkable the way you do that," John reassured.

He realized, any other day that might have passed for flirting, but now he had someone else on his mind and someone across from him who seemed, despite not knowing much about Sherlock at all, to understand what he was up against. Even just going by the gist, what she said seemed to help parse out some of the possibilities. It seemed entirely possible that Sherlock, as unsociable as he is, had very few chances to truly _know_ many people and John wondered how many people Sherlock did know well would fit Sherlock's no doubt extreme criteria. John couldn't help himself but wonder if he could fit that criteria.

Sitting in 221B, curled up in his armchair with his arms wrapped tightly around his calves and his forehead pressed against his knees, Sherlock feels himself drowning in his thoughts. He was supposed to be logical, rational, the pinnacle of clear thinking, and able to understand human emotion as it invariably pertained to crime solving, but only that far and no farther. He was supposed to see how emotions influenced, but never be influenced himself. He was supposed to keep his head clear. He had to think clearly at all times and now he was failing. Never-ending, dizzying, erratic, and disorganized, his thoughts remind him why he resorted to cocaine. Cocaine gave him clarity, gave him the speed to catch up with his thoughts. Cocaine taught him that he did not need food and sleep as much; he just needed to _think_. He used cocaine and he did not feel like eating or sleeping, but he had the energy to connect all of the data into one beautiful stream. Without the cocaine, his thoughts bounced around and, eventually, as atoms do, connected when they bumped into each other, but it was so muc_h less efficient_. The game was so much harder to play and in the down time, like now, he had no direction for his thoughts and they bounced around unbearably, unceasingly, with no outlet. The price of being extraordinary, he supposed, sometimes a very steep price.

He just needed a respite, even if only for a brief moment. He just needed a break. He had already smoked enough cigarettes to border on nicotine poisoning, so that was out. Cocaine was out too, because John-

He rose to take the skull from above the fireplace. If this was not the time for some dramatic soliloquy, he did not know when was. He held the skull with the tips of his fingers, twisted his wrist, rotating it side-to-side absently, and took a deep breath.

"I have not used you recently. I apologize for the neglect, but it seems like you might be helpful yet. You see I have a _sentiment_ problem. I, to my dismay, have come to see the fallacy in the assertion that I do not have feelings. Since meeting John I have lost the certainty in what I am and have doubted what I once held above all: the knowledge that caring isn't an advantage. As long as I can remember I have known that I must not succumb to any semblance of _feelings_; however, it does not seem like I can avoid it any longer. I suppose it is perhaps an odd twist on fight or flight. Fight feeling, and particularly _emoting_, forever—even though I might still lose with the way things are progressing and you know how I hate losing—or give in and let it consume _me_, let it consume _everything_. Dam or flood, implode or explode, neither seems entirely positive; neither seems conducive to helping John and that is among my prominent current concerns. I refuse to fail in that way as well. I cannot let John slip away.

"I used to be content knowing John's mind perfectly in its platonic manifestations, but now I see a whole new expanse of opportunity. I both love it and hate it. I do not usually enjoy even the _idea_ of kissing. Exchanging saliva with someone," he scoffed, "does not sound very appealing. Also, I do not understand the idea of a one-night stand in the slightest. To meet someone and feel compelled to bring him home seems ridiculous and I have never felt the urge. This is different. This is John. I liked feeling John's breath and discovering what touching John in a new way felt like. John, as he always does, proved different from everyone else. Where I used to shudder from the idea of kissing and _more_, with John it seems so intriguing and pleasant. Now, I want to know all the ways I could touch John, what different parts of him could feel like, and how the sensations might change with different methods and, perhaps more strikingly, I want to know what it would be like for him to touch _me_. There is so much to _know_ now and _I want it all_. Of course, there is a high probability that John would be amenable given his previous expression, but it is not absolutely certain that it would be wise. I told Irene not to let her heart rule her head, but it seems no matter what my heart would interfere and trying to suppress it might only make things more complicated. It might mean forever dealing with my thoughts in tumult. So, arises the question again: self-combust from curiosity or consume everything in my indulgence?"

In the momentary pause, Sherlock's phone chimed. He assumed John texted. He assumed incorrectly. A voicemail from Mycroft, Sherlock had not even heard his phone ring. He considered ignoring it, but he had nothing else to do and could still pretend to have never heard it if he felt it was too mundane.

This time Mycroft surprised him by refraining from being mundane; instead he decided to be horrifically vital.

Sebastian Moran, the final sniper, had caught wind of the planned raid of his hideout and fled. The search would have to start anew. With this revelation came another equally horrifying one: John had been gone a very long time. He was just supposed to go get some information and come back. He had been gone for hours now. The sun had set in the amount of time he had been gone. Sherlock cursed himself for being lulled into this idiotic sense of safety and losing all track of time.

Sherlock frantically called John and was sent immediately to voicemail, which he knew could mean two things: one, the battery on John's phone died or his phone was otherwise innocently broken, or two, it had been dropped or discarded for more sinister reasons. Either way, it would be useless to leave a message.

His next call was Mycroft.

"Hello, brother," Mycroft said in his annoyingly perennial propriety. "Thank you for being so prompt-"

"Shut up, Mycroft. We can talk about your failure later. Do you know where John is?" Sherlock cut in, his tone stern and showing concretely that he was in no mood for talks of reasonability.

Mycroft, in his usual manner, persisted nonetheless. "You make it sound so easy to coordinate a secret strike when there is so much bureaucracy. Honestly-"

"Mycroft, I don't know where John is and you have failed to take out the sniper assigned to him. So, stop with your inane dribble and _do something_."

"Sherlock-" Mycroft began, having dropped all but his absolutely innate haughtiness. It still sounded remarkably like when Mycroft scolded him as a child, but it was a step in the right direction.

"You forget that I am abundantly aware of your CCTV hobby. Just find him. Please, Mycroft," Sherlock insisted.

"Fine. I will report back when I have information."

Knowing no more was to be said, they ended the call simultaneously and Sherlock was left to do absolutely nothing. He sat in the flat in the dark, alternating between pacing the flat and throwing himself on the couch to drum his fingers on the coffee table and repeatedly tug at his hair. Sherlock was reminded of and presently very clearly understood physicist arguments about the relativity of time. He might not have paid attention to their principles regarding the universe, waste of cognitive space, but he never forgot the relativity of time. While during a case, time might seem to fly by, now each minute certainly did not feel like the minute he remembered. He kept checking his phone and its clock would insist not even a minute had passed since last he checked. He jerked embarrassingly when it finally did ring.

"Yes?" he answered.

"He should be on the way back from a pub. He was seen taking a cab. It seems he may have had a date."

"I'm glad your spying has finally paid off, Mycroft." Sherlock's words felt caught in his throat, another uncommon sensation.

"You're welcome, Sherlock."

Sherlock really did not appreciate the pity in Mycroft's tone, but it was good, he supposed, that Mycroft understood. Conversation ended once more without any semblance of a goodbye and Sherlock was left to himself again. He wondered why, even though he knew John was likely safely on his way home, he did not feel any better. He still felt twitchy and had a strong urge to start throwing things and, after about ten minutes of contemplating what would be the most satisfying, he heard the wonderfully familiar sound of the door opening to the foyer. He froze, his muscles like a compressed spring. As soon as John came through the door to 221B, he sprung into motion, with one arm stretched to slam the door closed behind John and the other curling around him and jerking him close. After the door closed with a satisfying bang, Sherlock brought his arm to join the other. He clutched at John's jacket, squeezing handfuls of fabric in his fists. John went rigid for a moment, but Sherlock just clutched tighter and it seemed John eventually got used to the idea. It was absurdly reassuring, Sherlock thought, just to have someone put his arms around him. No, not just someone: John.

He was so wonderfully solid.

Sherlock felt his energy fade and he bent just enough to rest his head on John's shoulder, tucking his face in John's neck.

"What have you done to me?" Sherlock gasped.

"I could ask you the same," John said. His voice sounded so distant although John was speaking nearly directly in his ear.

Sherlock raised his head in an uncomfortable mix of surprise, confusion, and curiosity. John responded by raising one hand and placing it delicately on the side of Sherlock's face. He stroked Sherlock's cheekbone and leaned in.

It was a proper kiss this time. There was no smoke, no excuse, and no uncertainty. There was just John's lips touching his in a way that was exciting and new and Sherlock could feel himself losing control quickly. There was no more question of fight or flight, dam or flood. His decision had been made.


End file.
